


Molly's Turn

by sadistically_sweet



Series: The Adventures of 'Little' Sherlock and 'Daddy' John. [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Caregiving, Daddy Kink, Diapers, Dummies, Fluff, Infantilism, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, little bit of angst (wouldn't be one of my stories without it!), nappies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-25 13:25:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1650203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yes, it's finally time to bring Molly back into the series; the poor girl was crying for some attention...luckily, 'Sher'yock' and 'Unca' Jawn' are more than willing to provide it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One-Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Note: this is *not* the face-slapping Molly the show introduced us to, for a variety of my own personal reasons that will come to light in later chapters.

Molly...was having a _very_ tough time today.

Not that there was anything different today than from any other day, no...it's just that, every once in awhile, there were some days when she woke up in more of, um, a _fragile_ state than normal...and today was one of those days.

And it's not like there was anything particularly wrong that had happened, either...nothing to really set her off. The people at work were being pleasant, or at least civil, and there was even something interesting to work on today, rather than merely prepping a body to be released through to the family or funeral parlour...

...But there was a downside to having anything 'interesting' come through; one that would invariably show up in a long, dark coat, dragging another smaller, not-as-dark one along in its shadow.

Oh, but it wasn't that she didn't enjoy having Sherlock and John around, you must understand!...no, it wasn't that at all! Now that all the past...ugliness...was over and done with, and the detective was back on speaking terms with her again (even as limited as they may be, and Molly had a sneaking suspicion that John was the one to thank for any interaction at all), she very much looked forward to the days when both men (or just the one, really) would bust in and Sherlock would temporarily take over her space as he did his thing, while John made small talk...

On days like _this_ , though...it was harder to handle.

She didn't know _why_ this was so, or why Sherlock being in an even better mood than usual (so much so, that she'd dare to call it 'friendly'), throwing smiles and praises her way in between bending over and studying the corpse of the homeless man on the table (not one that he had known personally, but only heard whispers of, and was rumoured to have been able to both taste and smell music...hence the 'interesting' angle) was starting to weigh on her already-weakened self-preservation--but Molly held it together, in spite of it all, and was even starting to feel a bit of pride in herself...

...until the moment when John, while watching Sherlock peel back flaps of skin and muscle to examine the sinus cavities for any abnormalities that may have contributed to the dead man's claim as he yammered on about a possible mutation in the nerves between the inner ear and the back of the throat, came to stand beside the positively (and morbidly) gleeful detective and place his hand on the other's lower back, his thumb rubbing gently along the slight dip of Sherlock's spine while he smiled at him...the kind of warm, sweet smile that any loving parent would bestow upon their child when they were particularly proud of them--

...There was only so much that Molly could handle--and this was decidedly _more_ than that.

The sob that bubbled up in her throat overcame her so quickly, Molly didn't even have time to stifle it...she only succeeded in turning it into a loud, semi-choking sound. Both Sherlock and John's heads snapped up, each wearing matching looks of confusion, and then concern as the young morgue attendant clapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head forcibly before turning her back on them and rushing from the room while her vision blurred. She barreled past the set of swinging doors and kept going the entire way down the hall, unable to see clearly, but her legs were able to carry her along the path that she'd taken many times before under similar circumstances, to the only safehaven in this whole god- forsaken building--the ladies' room.

The next thing Molly knew, she was gripping the edge of the white porcelain sink and staring back at her own horrid reflection, her features contorted into into a face that she barely recognized as her own through a thick mask of devastation, gasping for breath in between the ragged sobs bursting forth from deep within her chest.

 _'Oh, my God, you whiny little wimp...what's set you off now?!?'_ she railed against herself internally, while swiping at the hot tears coursing down her face....what, she couldn't even _look_ at happy people now, without having a complete mental breakdown? _'But it...no, it hurts...but it **shouldn't**...'_ \--NO, John and Sherlock loved each other, were _made_ for each other, they were perfect together, and she was _happy_ for them!...

So, if that was true (and it **was** , she knew it!)...then why was it so _painful_ to witness?

Molly stared at her reflection balefully, until her snivelling and hitching began to get on her own nerves, and then ran a bit of cold water over her hands so she could wipe away the evidence of tears and some of the redness in her cheeks...but mostly, it was just so she had an excuse to look at something other than her own visage.

While she was at it, she let her mind stumble over a few viable excuses to tell the two men she had so abruptly abandoned back in the lab--she supposed she could always tell them that her stomach was feeling a little flighty today, and that the smell of impacted nasal cavities had finally done her in... _'Oh, why even worry about it?'_ she thought bitterly, interrupting her own thought processes. _'Sherlock won't care, even if you do lie...not when he's got a cool dead body to fawn over and John there to kiss his arse; face it Molly, you're back to being the one that...'_

"...doesn't matter," she finished out loud, mumbling under her breath. With a heavy sigh, Molly patted her cheeks dry with a paper towel, and was just looking back to the mirror to see if it was still obvious that she'd had a fit ('course it was, her eyes were still blazin' red, _dammit_ ) when the sound of approaching footsteps outside the door. She had just enough time to send a quick prayer, _'Please, God, make them keep going!...'_ , before the door was pushed opened, and a concerned voice called out, "...Molly?"

"Y-yeah," she answered back, cringing at how small and meek she sounded; John rounded the corner of the partition that separated the doorway from the rest of the room slowly and, with a quick glance at the stalls to make sure he wouldn't be causing a scene by strolling into an otherwise occupied ladies' room, walked over to Molly with an outstretched arm, which he easily placed around her shoulders. "Are you alright?" he asked, his expression matching his tone.

Molly struggled, _hard_ , not to lean into the first warm, friendly, human touch that she'd felt in days. "Uh-h- huh, yeah...I mean, yes, I'm alright," she said, forcing a laugh. "It was just, yeah, just the smell getting to me..."

John's answer consisted of a singular raised eyebrow, and a look...a look that brought her stammering to a sudden halt and made her feel about ten inches high. "You're a terrible liar, Molly--it's very unbecoming of you."

Oh, God, the way he _sounded!_...as if he were so disappointed that she'd even tried; Molly felt her chin begin to tremble and she pressed the knuckle of her thumb to her lips to still it, then cast her gaze to the floor. "...Sorry."

There was a slight nod of the doctor's head; apology accepted. "So, what was it?--Did Sherlock say something? I've been telling him to be nicer and so far, he has, but I sort of zoned out a bit while he was going on about how scratchin' your ear can make your throat close up, or somethin' like that..."

"No, no," Molly interjected, cutting John off. "Nothing like that; he was _so_ nice!...Nicest he's ever been, really," she added, and then sighed; "Well, maybe--it's just, um, it's _because_ he was bein' so nice."

John stared at her for a long moment, and then gave a short laugh. "Okay, wait; no, you're just havin' one on me now!..." he said, chuckling until he noticed the increasingly uncomfortable look on her pallid face. "Oh...you're not joking, are you?" he asked, growing sober. Molly shook her head 'no'. "But I don't understand...you _want_ him to be a tit?..."

Molly shook her head again and occupied herself with wringing her hands; keeping focused on an action such as that always seemed to help keep the tears at bay. "No, it's not that, either, it's just..." She let herself trail off, trying to think of a less-crazy, less-desperate way to explain how she felt...and she failed. Sod it, she was just going to blurt it right out and hope that it was akin to pulling off a bandage--the faster you did it, the less it painful it was; "...it's just, when everyone is so nice and loving _here_ , it makes it that much harder to know that I have to go home to, to _n-nothing_ ," she said, her words ending in a breathless gasp as she felt felt her throat clench painfully.

There was a moment of what could only be described as 'stunned silence' before Molly felt the hand on her shoulder tighten slightly and start to pull her forward; "Aw, Molly..."

The young woman _tried_ to resist the hug, she really did; she hated being so weak , and so, so damned _needy_ all the time!...but John was much stronger than her (or so Molly told herself--in truth, he wasn't pulling _that_ hard, and she wasn't resisting _that_ much), and his voice was so warm and kind, just like the arms he was now wrapping around her, and...and he smelled so _good_...no, wait, not just 'good'...he smelled familiar, and, and _comforting_ , and it was such a massive relief after breathing in nothing but decay and disinfectant all damned day, everyday, and now, now he was putting his hand on the back of her head, and was he?... _yes_ , he was petting the back of her hair, just like her dad used to, before he...before he...

Molly stopped resisting and laid her head on John's shoulder, and cried.

"I know, I know," John said, lowering his voice to try and soothe her, along with the continuous petting. "I know exactly how heartbreaking that can be, Molls...I've been there, too."

Molly sniffed and nodded.

John sighed, and very nearly turned to kiss the side of the girls' head, just as he would do with Sherlock...but he caught himself just in time, thank God. An act of that intimacy level might be deemed a little inappropriate, given certain circumstances (plus, he didn't want to put the poor thing right back in Sherlock's crosshairs, or on his shit- list)...although, it did invite a thought; "Look, don't worry, sweetheart..." _'Whoops, that one slipped,'_ he thought, and then quickly continued with what he was saying, hoping Molly wouldn't have caught it, "...you'll find a Daddy someday. I know it seems hopeless right now, but the one's who take the longest, always turn out to be the best, yeah?" _'...Like the one's who take two-years-too-long,'_ he added silently, allowing a dry smile.

Molly let out another sob, and nodded again.

John kept smiling and began to rub up and down her back (keeping his hand at an appropriate level above the waist, while he was at it); "Well, in the meantime...would you like to come play with Sherlock and Uncle John?"

The trembling and sniffling ceased almost immediately, it seemed as if the girl had stopped breathing entirely. John was just starting wonder if he actually _had_ overstepped some sort of boundary, in spite of the care he'd taken, until Molly pulled away just enough to peer up at him...and he saw the same soft, wide-eyed expression that Sherlock took on when _he_ was in 'little' space. "...Uncle John?" she repeated, as if she believed that she'd misheard the man.

John felt a sharp twinge of guilt; the look she was giving him now wasn't all that dissimilar to looks he'd imagined her with in certain, _*ahem*_ , 'fantasies' he used to ( _ **used**_ to!...) have, and every once in awhile, old shame would dredge itself up about it. He pushed it back down for now, and smiled at her warmly; "Only if you want to, that is...you're not going to hurt anyone's feelings if you decide you don't want to," he said, wanting to reassure her as much as possible.

Molly chewed the corner of her lip as a bevy of different emotions flitted across her face; "No, I...wait, I mean, yeah, I'd like to, but, um, what...what would Sherlock say?"

John opened his mouth to reply, and then paused; what _would_ Sherlock say? The other man wasn't exactly known for his giving nature, or his ability to share (outside of John or Mrs. Hudson, at least) as an adult, let alone in a child's mentality...however, the doctor himself had been witness to the detective's softer side--there was no doubt Sherlock had it in him to be an extremely thoughtful, caring individual...'Jawn' could also attest to that. But the real question was...

Could he be that way with _Molly?_

John opened his mouth again, then closed it, and then opened it once more...and then he sighed, and turned an apologetic smile to her; "Let's go ask him and find out, shall we?...No, it's _fine_ ; he barks a lot, but there's no bite to him...well, hardly any bite," he said quickly, anticipating the look of panic that did indeed start to flood the poor girl's eyes at the mere mention of approaching the detective. "The worst he can say right now is 'no', and even if he does...well, I can work on him and change his mind," he added with a laugh.

Molly didn't seem entirely convinced.

"I know, I know what you're thinking...but all of that's in the past, Molly. It was a misunderstanding, mainly on _my_ part, but we've both forgiven everything and moved on--now it's your turn to do the same."

Molly listened intently and watched John with a doleful expression, and the doctor found himself unconsciously taking her smaller, more delicate hands in his own and gently squeezing them...he honestly didn't even notice until she happened to glance down at her hands, causing John to follow suite; he felt his cheeks grow hot and flushed, and then let her hands go. "Sorry, it's the 'Daddy' thing...I can't turn it off sometimes," he chuckled, going bashful.

The young morgue attendant smiled, the first genuine smile John had seen from the girl all day, and giggled quietly. "Nah, don't be sorry...you've always been that way, even when you didn't know it--all the good ones are like that."

If John hadn't already been blushing furiously, that would have been sure to set him off. As it was, it did render him speechless...well, almost speechless. He cleared his throat and, with a firm self-admonition to knock off the 'charmed schoolboy' act, he straightened his spine and puffed out his chest a bit; "C'mon, lets wash your face first--you go out lookin' like tha', and people are going to suspect I did somethin'to you... _again_ ," he teased, and bustled her back over to the sink where he proceeded to wet a couple of paper towels and helped (well, he said 'help', but he still wound up doing 90% of the work) her carefully wipe at her cheeks and dab at her eyes.

When Molly finally started to look like herself again, fresh-faced and fair, with the only leftover signs of her previous distress a couple of red-rimmed eyes, John escorted her back to the lab. The girl appeared to be fine at first, giving John tiny smiles and soft giggles that hunched her shoulders as he chatted with her...but as their footsteps brought them closer to the lab, the quiet, subdued shroud began to settle over her again, causing Molly to withdraw back into herself. By the time they arrived at the set of double doors that would grant them access to the cold, drab-grey room, she was practically hiding behind John's back, using him like a shield.

Sherlock was bent over, pretending to examine the dissected palate of the homeless man on the table...and yes,John _would_ say he was 'pretending', because as soon as the doctor and Molly entered the room, the detective shot straight up without hesitation, his focus entirely on them. "Whatever I said, I didn't mean it, and I'm really very sorry," he babbled, his eyes darting anxiously between John and the girl, "... _really_ sorry."

John couldn't help but laugh; "No, love, you didn't do anything wrong..." The other man's shoulders visibly slumped with relief, and the doctor reached back to bring the skittish girl out from behind him; "...but Molly here's been feelin' a bit left out and lonely, so I invited her to come over and play sometime."

There was a small, almost imperceptible lift of Sherlock's brow as his gaze flicked over to her; "You...still want to _play_ with me?"

Molly shuffled her feet and glanced up at John, who nodded at her, and then turned back to Sherlock and made the same motion at him; "Yeah...I, I mean, if it's okay with you?" she said quietly, with a slight lilt at the end turning it into a question.

Sherlock was already nodding back before she'd finished speaking; "...'kay," he said, finally letting a slow, semi- crooked smile lit up his whole face, and Molly let out the breath that she didn't realize she'd been holding, and smiled back shyly.

John watched the exchange with a goofy grin of his own; oh, this was going to be _fun_...

...or, adversely, a total disaster.

Quite possibly both.

The doctor placed his hand in the middle of Molly's back and nudged her in the direction of the table, and looked down at the cross sections of skull and other assorted viscera, and curled his lip; "Alright, lets get this, uh...cleaned up, and go out for lunch--we can pick a day for our little playdate," (he had to force himself not to giggle at the word, but he was so horribly _excited!_ ) "...and we'll go ahead and talk boundaries while we're at it." Which, you know, not to pat himself on the back or anything, but that seemed like a good 'next step'...after all, they didn't know (well, _he_ didn't know; there was no telling exactly what Sherlock knew) anything about Molly's 'little' side...how old she was, her temperament (though John could very well guess, if this afternoon was any indication),or any other of those bits of information that parents pick up over time...like whether she used bottles or sippy-cups, or dummies, or even wore nap--

...Oh, dear.

Well, even if she _did_ happen to wear them, John highly doubted that any kind of 'changing' would be an option...Molly might just blush herself to death, or suffer a humiliation-induced stroke--

...Not to mention just how Sherlock would feel about him putting his hands on a unclothed woman that wasn't already a patient.

See?...this is why it's always a good idea to talk about this sort of thing beforehand!

While John was standing off to the side, pondering to himself, Sherlock was fully recovered from his initial bout of shyness and was rattling off the results to his examination to Molly in rapid-fire as he picked up bits and pieces and carefully set aside mounted slides to be looked at more closely later; "Look, here!...see that extra cluster of nerves adjacent to the roots of the tonsils? I believe those were acting as sensors...when he listened to music at a certain pitch, they _vibrated_ , and caused a reaction that stimulated the taste buds at the back of his tongue...he _was_ tasting music...!"

 _'Thank God for not being squeamish,'_ John thought with a shake of his head...he let Sherlock prattle on about it now, while it was just them, so he wouldn't be tempted to keep expounding upon it while they were out dining amongst the unprepared general populace. When John felt the detective was nearing the end of his tireless siege of medical terminology, John cut in; "Okay, ladies and gents, go wash your hands, and _no_ , Sherlock, it doesn't matter if you were wearing gloves--go wash them anyway," he said, catching the man getting set to protest out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock stopped, mouth open in mid-complaint, then sighed and blew a loose tendril of hair out of his face before following Molly over to one of the large basins that lined either side of the room.

Sherlock dawdled, of course, as a sort of mini-retribution for being 'told' to wash his hands in the first place, and then continued to carry on his previous conversation with the younger girl standing beside him, watching her in his peripheral vision and lulling her into a false sense of security--then, just as Molly leaned forward for a final rinse, Sherlock closed his hand into a loose fist, letting the pocket it created fill...and then squeezed a stream of cold water right into the unsuspecting girl's face.

Molly's resulting squawk and jerking motion had John right back into 'Daddy' mode and he took a step forward, ready to handle the situation; " _Sher_ \--!" he snapped, his tone already turning hard, but before he could get near them, he saw Sherlock turn towards Molly (and grinning like the cat who caught the canary, the little shit) and offered her his handkerchief; the girl snatched it from his hands and swatted at the giant, man-sized child with it, causing them both to start giggling like lunatics.

John stopped in his tracks and smiled--the blistering scolding that Sherlock had been due for slowly withered away to nothing as the doctor observed the two carry on with nudging and picking at each other like a pair of kittens at play, and John had to laugh right along with them...

Yes, this was definitely going to be fun.


	2. Chapter Two-Preparation

Time was not one of Molly's friends.

Time often meant waiting.

Waiting often allowed the mind to wander.

Allowing the mind to wander sometimes led to thinking about one's life, and any important, exciting events that may be coming up.

Thinking about upcoming events in one's life, could possibly result in doubting whether one was making the right decision about such an event.

...Doubting sometimes led to one changing their mind about such decisions.

And so it had been all week, with poor Molly nearly making herself neurotic with the amount of second-guessing and flip-flopping her mind had been doing ever since she'd agreed to John's proposal; she'd even go so far as packing a bag with all of her must-have's: her spare dummy, the purple one with the bright yellow daisy in the center (her pink one stayed on her person, _always_ , either in her mouth, or in her pocket), her silky pink blanket, a couple of spare onesies (though, sometimes she'd trade those out for her favourite t-shirt with a pair of girly rhumba shorts with ruffles on the backside...then she would trade them back, blushing furiously), her old much-loved-and-showing-it stuffed Care Bear from her actual childhood (Grumpy had always been her favourite; she always used to think a good hug was all he needed to sort himself out) and her big, puffy pink owl, Peeper, who was much newer than Grumpy, but was still his best friend nonetheless, with her big, pretty green eyes framed with long, dramatic eyelashes that really did close when you laid her on her back...

After stuffing all of that into her bag, Molly would then toss in a bottle (also Care Bear-themed...okay, so, yeah, she collected them a bit more fervently than one would consider normal...what of it?), as well as a bag containing a million different little barrettes and hair-bows and clips and elastics (she'd always loved having her hair played with, and John had positively glowed with delight when she mentioned it), and sometimes... _sometimes_...after a lot of 'hemming' and 'hawwing', she'd pack in a single nappy--one from a pack that she'd bought on a whim six, nearly seven years ago, that had remained unopened...until now, at least.

...She didn't know if they'd even fit her now.

Naturally, talk of nappies had come about during their lunch date last Friday (God, it already seemed like ages ago, instead of just a week), and after beating around every conceivable bush, Sherlock had finally grown weary of the verbal back-and-forth and asked her flat-out; oh, but he didn't just ask her _if_ she wore, oh no...that was too easy. No, the Great Sherlock Holmes simply asked her what brand and style, while Molly choked and sputtered on the water she'd been attempting to drink. And, once she eventually did stop choking on her water, she answered him...John, of course, reassured her that they didn't have to go 'there' if she didn't wish to, and Molly finally stammered out a rushed "Maybesomeday."

And yet, despite all of her preparation (and truly, preparation it was...it would take her a good forty-five minutes to pack and unpack her bag, and there was one occasion where she spent two _hours_ picking and choosing!), Molly would sit on her bed, crosslegged, and stare at the freshly packed bag for several long, weighted minutes...

...then she would get up and unpack all of it again, putting everything away while she kicked herself and suffered over how she was going to try to explain herself to John when she texted him to cancel their plans.

She couldn't bring herself to do it, though...couldn't cancel, that is. Molly sweated it out all week while performing her packing/unpacking process at least once a night, sometimes twice, until it was _finally_ the night before the big 'playdate'...the poor girl had worked herself up into a tizzy, for certain; so much so, that the big, churning bubble of anxiety in her gut wouldn't allow her to force down the takeaway she'd picked up on the way home. And her phone...oh, _goodness_ , her phone was never more than a few inches from her hand at any point, if she even put it down at all! With the same compulsive urge that drove her through her packing routine, Molly would clutch her phone in her hand and stare blankly at the screen as she scrolled between both John and Sherlock's numbers, then select one or the other and type out a long, rambling message about how she was sorry, but she wouldn't be able to make it, how something important at the clinic came up, or how she'd forgotten about the 'other' plans she made with someone else for that day, or...

Molly stopped, read the whole message again and imagined just what sort of responses it would get her...she sighed heavily, tossed her phone to the side, and tried in vain to put all of her focus back on the television program she had on for background noise.

Then, when three a.m. eventually rolled around, and Molly _still_ couldn't relax enough to sleep...she decided that she'd had enough.

She sat up and snatched her phone from the bedside table nearby and pulled up John's number; he was obviously the more understanding, easier of the two to deal with...plus, at this hour, he was unlikely to be awake and wouldn't get her message until morning, and she planned on being asleep herself by then, with her phone _off_ , and wouldn't get any of his replies until it was much too late in the day to do anything about it.

Sure, it was a spineless tactic...but it was the only way she could handle this right now.

** >sorry i cant make it tomorrow...not feeling well**

Molly scoffed and sneered at her own transparent lie, then backspaced and started over...

** >Sorry John...im just not as ready as i thot i was **

Send.

As soon as her thumb left the touchscreen, Molly laid her phone on her chest and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes; she thought that sending the text and being done with the whole business would have put her at ease, but now she just felt guilty...guilty, and ashamed of her cowardice.

Then her phone pinged, and caused poor Molly to nearly jump out of her own skin.

** >And just what do you mean by 'not ready'? It's been six years since you've had any play partners. **

Molly read the message again, several times, and then double-checked to make sure that she'd sent it to the right person--

** >John? **

There was a grand total of ten seconds before her phone sounded off again--

** >No, John's asleep...I'm not doing that infernal 'SH' signature with every message, Molly, so use your reasoning. And don't tell me that you're chickening out now...I won't allow it. **

Molly sighed and flipped over onto her side while glaring daggers at the screen... _why_ hadn't she counted on this insistent prick being awake at this hour?!

** >Look i just don't know if im ready for you guys to see me like that yet...i dont want it to change the way you think of me **

** >Molly, we witnessed you burst into hysterics because John publicly displayed affection...he touched my back, and you started sobbing. You are more than ready. **

Molly visibly cringed as she read this and turned her face into the pillow, as if that was going to help block the memory... _dammit_ , she knew that particular moment of weakness was going to come back and haunt her. She stayed that way for a long time, knowing that she had no good way to respond to that, and was just about to give up and turn her phone completely off altogether, when it pinged again--

** >Molly, just come play with me...p'ease?**

...No sooner than she finished reading the message, Molly literally felt the ball of tension in her gut loosen its hold; she smiled at the glowing screen, one side of her face still buried in her pillow, and read it again...and this time, she could practically hear the detective pleading her in his 'little' voice, a voice that she remembered clearly, even after all these years.

** >Ok Sherlock...ill be there**

** >Good, I'm glad we reached an agreement. Now go to sleep; it's far past your bedtime, and if Daddy realises how late you've been up, he'll put you down for an early nap.**

Molly snorted a giggle and covered her mouth to silence it, as if she were in danger of waking John up from here.

** >What do you mean hell make me nap? Your up late to!**

** >It took him long enough, but John has finally learned that no version of Sherlock 'naps'...unless afflicted with a broken jaw and a massive dose of pain medication.**

Molly lost her battle to stay quiet and laughed quite loudly at that, along with thumping her feet against the mattress; oh, she had heard about that little adventure, alright...the story of the short man that had dragged in a 'giant, caustic asshole' who, even with a broken jaw, had managed to insult nearly every staff member and made three nurses cry had circulated around the proverbial watercooler for weeks after the fact, and as much as Molly feared the sharp edge of Sherlock's tongue...well, it was pretty damn funny when it was directed at someone else!

A moment later, anther ping from her phone interrupted her--

** >It's not THAT funny. Now go to bed, or I'll tell on you myself.**

_'Bossy,'_ Molly thought as she bit her lip against the last of the giggles and texted back--

** >Aww, meanie!...nite-nite Sherlock**

** >Night-night, Maw'yee.**

Molly read the last message and sighed...this time, it was a soft, quiet sigh of contentment. She set her alarm and had just put her phone aside and laid back, when her text alert sounded off one more time; she picked it up, slightly puzzled, and read the message...and then dissolved into another snorting, giggling mess.

** >By the way, your spelling was atrocious...just because we're communicating via text is no excuse to toss all rules by the wayside. Goodnight.**

Molly shot her middle finger up at the screen (yeah, she knew there was no point...but she felt like doing it, so she did!) and put the phone back down, determining right then and there not to pick it back up until morning, no matter what, and sank back into her cool, soft sheets while one arm snaked around blindly until it came into contact with her Grumpy- bear and, upon finding him, pulled him close to her chest. She snuggled him in and breathed in his old, slightly-musty- smelling fur as she closed her eyes, and with thoughts of a deep, yet soft and gentle voice saying 'night-night, Maw'yee' echoing in her mind, the not-so-poor-anymore little girl drifted off into a smooth, dreamless sleep.


	3. Chapter Three-Treading Water

Unfortunately for Molly, the saying about 'old habits are hard to break' (or something along those lines; she couldn't remember it verbatim...Sherlock probably could, though) was often proved to be true...at least, it was now as she found herself standing on the front steps of 221B just a half-hour past noon, gazing up at the doorway looming before her while she clutched and worried the strap of her bag in her hands. All of the previous night's assurances from a certain playfully erudite individual had begun fading into distant memory the moment she'd opened her eyes that morning, allowing room for the seed of apprehension to continue to take root and grow.

Molly had spent that morning merely going through the motions: showering, eating a bite of buttered toast and coffee, brushing her teeth (people who brushed and _then_ ate breakfast always seemed a bit daft, at least to her), going through her bag once more, not just to check the items in it (she already knew each and every one right off the top of her head by now, she'd packed and unpacked so much), but simply because there was a whole lot of time to waste, and not enough chores to do to fill it...and then finally, _finally_ , she stood at the kitchen sink, sloshing around the few dishes from both last night's dinner and this morning's breakfast in the tepid, soapy water as she stared blankly out the window, wondering what the hell she'd been thinking, allowing herself to get talked into this mess not just once, but _twice_ now!...until a louder-than-usual text message from John asking her _'where are you?'_ told her that it was high time to be getting on her way.

So, here she was, standing in front of the last obstacle standing between her and the thing she'd been longing for all this time...and she couldn't move.

Molly huffed and made a show of straightening her back and shoulders, set her jaw proudly, and reached up defiantly for the big, slightly-askewed knocker...

...and then snatched her hand back as if she'd been scalded.

 _'Molly, for god'sakes! Stop being such a, such a **baby!**_ '

She would have laughed at herself, at the irony of that statement...if it wasn't so terribly, _horribly_ accurate and depressing.

The young morgue attendant stared at the door, her face drawn in and pinched as she contemplated (yet again) leaving and just forgetting the whole damned thing before she was noticed, when a sudden, loud noise caused her to jump back...she looked around wildly, trying to locate the source of the noise, before she caught a tersely-whispered _"...Molly!"_

Molly followed the direction of the voice and whipped her head back just in time to see an ever-familiar head full of dark, curly hair pop out of the window that had just been flung open, and then Sherlock himself was there, leaning on the sill and frowning down at her. "We've been watching you pace for ten minutes...even John is starting to lose his patience!"

Molly could only gawp up at him, abashed at the thought of the doctor, who usually had the patience of a saint, actually becoming frustrated with her...that is, if Sherlock was actually telling the truth, and not just employing idle threats; "I, I'm, uh...er, sorry!"

Sherlock held up a finger to silence her and looked over his shoulder, and Molly could hear a murmured conversation-- supposedly with John. The detective then turned back to her and hissed down in a low voice; "Daddy says if you're not up here by the time he counts to 'ten', he'll come down and fetch you himself, and it'll be right into time-out with you!" He glanced over his shoulder once more, and then quickly back down; _"...One!"_

Molly's eyes widened as a bolt of...fear?...apprehension?... _exhileration?_...shot through her, and before she realised it, she was thumping up the first set of stairs to the mens' flat , her heart pounding in her throat and ears...the door opened just as she reached the landing and the young girl was greeted by an unusually solemn-looking doctor, waiting on her with a hand on his hip and one eyebrow raised. "...Six," he said, and stepped aside to allow her to slink in like a puppy with her tail between her legs. John firmly shut and locked the door behind her, then turned to face her, and folded his arms across his chest; "...What kept you so long, Molly?"

Molly stood near the sofa, where Sherlock was currently curled up on one end, his legs drawn up to his chest as he watched the events transpiring with wide eyes...he knew the look on John's face very well; well-enough to be nervous, even though _he_ wasn't the one in trouble, for a change...and that was an extremely strange feeling on all its own merit. The poor girl looked over to him for any sign of assistance, and when she found none forthcoming, she sighed and turned back to John, shoulders hunched; "...I don't know," she mumbled.

John's other eyebrow drew up to join its partner; "You 'don't know'? So, you don't remember what you were doing for the extra half hour to get here while we waited and worried, since we hadn't heard anymore from you?"

Molly felt a deep sinking-feeling in her tummy as John scolded her...whatever she'd been expecting, it hadn't been this--not jumping in right off the bat. But the quickly-dimming adult portion of her mind told her that this might just work in her favour...after all, she already felt 'little'; the immediate immersion was proving to be an effective way to skip past any awkward adjustment period...at least for now. "S-sorry, Joh-...I mean, Uncle John," she said sadly, her hand drifting into her pocket where her pink dummy lay waiting.

"Don't just apologize to me, you need to tell Sherlock that you're sorry, too...he's been bouncing off the walls all week because he was excited to play with you, and it was starting to upset him terribly when he thought you weren't going to show."

The little girl looked over at the little detective, surprised; "...You were?"

His cheeks pinkened slightly and he dropped his gaze to the floor. "Uh-huh."

Sherlock had been looking forward to seeing her? Sherlock, _the_ Sherlock? The same Sherlock that had ignored her for several years, except when he was in a hurry to gain access to a decomposing body? Had been excited to play with _her?_ Even with their talk at the morgue, and their short texting-session last night, it was just...just, wow, it didn't make any sense...she just couldn't...

...Wow.

"Go on, Molly...tell him you're sorry."

Molly's fingers tightened around the small piece of plastic in her pocket: "S-sorry, Sher'yock," she whispered, willing herself to shrink small enough and find a hole to crawl into and hide.

Sherlock looked up at her through his eyelashes, his head still bowed; "S'okay," he answered, just as quietly.

"Very good, both of you...that was very sweet," John said, slipping back to his 'nice Daddy' tone. He stepped towards Molly and put both hands on her shoulders, then turned her towards the couch, making her face the little detective full-on; "Sherlock, why don't you stand up and give Molly a nice hug, to show her that her apology's been accepted, and everything's forgiven?"

Sherlock peered up at John with an odd expression on his face, and it wasn't until he turned his gaze to Molly that she could pinpoint just _why_ it seemed so strange and out-of-place...

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do next, and this was the first time she'd ever been witness to it.

What exactly was he unsure about, though?...of course, she knew that he'd never been the sort of person to seek out physical contact, except for that short stint when she'd been his stand-in Mummy...but then, if he was only affectionate when he was little, and he was little _now_ , and he still didn't want to hug...but, but John had just said he'd been _excited_ to see her!...so, why didn't he want to...?!

All of these thoughts raced around Molly's head, with more and more joining in with every lap, each one more pitiful than the last, while her face grew ever more cloudy and pinched...so much so, that the poor girl didn't even notice the little detective slowly unfurling himself from his tiny section of the couch, until she felt a pair of extremely long arms wrap around her small frame and give her a faint squeeze, just as her bottom lip began to tremble. "Don't cry," he said, his voice soft as he pulled her close and rested his cheek on top of her head. "Don't cry, Maw'yee."

The little girl put up no resistance as Sherlock pulled her in, just as she hadn't with John in nearly the exact same situation a week ago. And, just as she had then, she buried her face into her huggers' chest and soaked in every bit of warmth and physical comfort that she could while it lasted. Molly could still hear the little detective murmuring things at her, and nodded in response, even thought she had no earthly idea what he was saying...her sense were too overloaded with masculine smell and touch to focus on anything other than the fact that Sherlock, Sherlock _Holmes_ , was hugging her, and actually _meaning_ it, for the first time in nearly seven years...

...and goddamn her if the thought that he would eventually have to let go didn't make her want to cry anyway.

Soon, though, Molly began to make out snippets of what Sherlock was saying, and managed to catch her own name; "...didn't haf'ta make Maw'yee _cry_ , Daddy," the little detective lamented.

"No, I didn't 'make' her cry, love...she felt bad about making us worry," she heard John reply, and something in his tone made her take a risk and peek out from the folds of Sherlock's soft grey pajama shirt--the doctor was evenly meeting the little detective's accusatory gaze, and he didn't look angry (or disappointed, thank goodness!) anymore. In fact, when that old, prickly 'I'm-being-watched' feeling crept up the man's spine until he found the curious brown eye staring back at him, John actually smiled at her; "Look, there she is," he chuckled. "And not a single tear on that face...you were just trying to get Uncle John in trouble, weren't you?"

Molly smiled back slowly and giggled at the teasing, then shook her head.

"Uh-huh, sure you weren't," John said, his voice betraying his actual take on the matter, and reached out to tap the tip of her nose with his finger. "I have a feeling you're going to be another norty one, just like a certain little boy I know."

Molly shook her head again and hid her face back in Sherlock's clothing, still giggling as the little detective protested, "Not _me!_..."

John laughed and, after putting one hand on Molly's back, stood up on his toes to give his biggest baby a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek; "Oh, _no_ , of course 'not you'...I must be thinking of a totally different little boy genius with dark, curly hair and a pout to die for," he insisted as he stepped back, keeping one hand on the girl. "Alright, Sherlock got his hug in...it's Uncle John's turn now!"

Molly reluctantly let herself be pulled from the little detective's embrace and stood facing John once again, still feeling a little sheepish and _very_ well-scolded...she could only meet that gaze of his, glowing with nothing but care and affection now, before it became too much (much too much) to handle, and she dropped her eyes back to the floor. "Ah-ah, no more of that," he said, and gently took her chin in his hand and nudged it up, leaving her with no other option _but_ to look him in the eye. "Molly, I'm very sorry I had to fuss at you like tha'..." John stopped and let go of her chin, only to use both hands to brush the hair away from either side of her face, and cup both her cheeks. "...but we were both really worried about you...especially when Sherlock told me about the little 'chat' you two had last night."

Molly nearly turned to give Sherlock the worst case of stink-eye that she could muster....had John not thwarted her movements. "No, don't be givin' him any grief over it; he only told me because he was concerned...look Molly, dear, we both know you're scared, and that's very understandable," he said, pausing to make sure she was still listening, and Molly had to suck in her bottom lip and bite down on it to keep from bursting into tears yet again, "...but we're both here, we both care, we both know what you're going through, and we both want you to have a wonderful time--nothing's out to attack you, you understand? Can you trust us to keep that little girl in there safe and happy, hm?" he finished, cradling her face while waiting for her reaction.

Molly struggled to keep her face from crumbling, and blinked rapidly and swallowed against the lump developing in her throat before she answered with a small nod and a shaky "Uh-h-huh."

John smiled, the sort of smile that the very sun itself rose and set with; "Good girl," he said quietly, and pressed his lips to her forehead briefly before pulling her in for a wonderfully bone-crushing hug.

The little morgue assistant chuffed happily and snuggled right in; moments like this were what she lived for, when she could be glad for her short, petite stature...it always added greatly to her 'little' mindset, and being engulfed in a pair of strong, sturdy arms made her feel more safe and secure than almost anything else in this material plane of existence.

When John withdrew from the hug, he placed another kiss at her temple, then clapped his hands and rubbed the palms together; "Alright, enough time spent bein' sad, lets get on with it...you both need to change, then you can play a bit before lunch, and then it'll be naptime for certain little night-owls," he said cheerfully and gave Molly a knowing wink as he bent down for her bag, still sitting by the door where it had been abandoned once she'd been getting reprimanded. "Did you bring clothes, Molly-doll?"

Molly blushed with pleasure at her newly-bestowed nickname, and reached for the bag; "Uh-huh...brought lot'sa stuff!"

John lifted it with a small, surprised-sounding grunt; "So you did...do you want Uncle John to help you, or do you want to be a big girl and change your own clothes?" he asked cautiously.

Molly blushed even deeper, for a very different reason, her hands still outstretched; "I...I can, this time," she stammered.

"That's okay, sweetheart--no need to worry at all; you can go upstairs and...no, wait, I don't want you climbing the stairs by yourself. No, you stay down here, and _we'll_ go upstairs and get ready...be right back, Molly-Dolly!" John finished, grinning broadly and grasping Sherlock's hand with barely contained enthusiasm...he really was just as eager as the two little ones were to begin. The little detective cast a glance back over his shoulder as he was tugged up the stairs, and gave her a small wave...Molly giggled and waved back, watching them disappear beyond the landing before making her way to the bedroom that John had indicated. She closed and locked the door, then set her bag on the foot of the large bed ( _'Sherlock's bed,'_ she thought with a small shiver down her spine) and unzipped it...or, she would have done, if she could only get her hands to stop trembling enough to grab the zipper.

Molly fumbled with it for a few moments, the metal tag clinking around (laughing at her, she'd say!) loudly, until she finally became so frustrated that she pushed it over on its side with a huff and fished her dummy out of her pocket, popped it into her mouth, and started sucking on it furiously as she folded her arms over her chest and pouted at the stupid thing!...

...maybe she should've just let Uncle John help.

As soon as she thought it, Molly shook her head violently at the idea...she could barely tolerate the men that she _dated_ seeing her in her knickers--how did she expect to let a friend, one that she's known for years, strip her down and change her clothes?...into _baby_ clothes?

Ffffff- _forget_ that noise, thank you very much.

No, she was nowhere near that point yet, is she ever got there at all. But John was right...she just had to trust both men (and herself, on that note), take a deep breath, and relax.

The shaky, nervous little girl sat on the corner of the bed, next to her bag, and held her hands out in front of her, watching them quiver, and frowned behind the pink plastic covering her mouth...she flexed them slowly, taking a deep breath through her nose each time she closed them into a fist, and then exhaled in time with uncurling her fingers, over and over, until the only thing about her that was still fluttering, was the dummy nestled between her lips.

 _'Here we go,'_ she thought as she set her bag upright and unzipped it, revealing Grumpy Bear's frowny little face lying on top...she plucked him up and nuzzled him first, apologizing for the rough treatment when she'd knocked the bag over, and clicked her dummy against his heart-shaped nose before tucking him under her arm and digging deeper into the layers of (probably unnecessary, but she'd felt compelled to pack it all, anyway) stuff until she reached the bottom, and pulled out three separate outfits: a onesie (her _favourite_ onesie), a shirt with matching ruffled baby pants, and a short romper-style dress with tulle at the waist, and snaps at the crotch. Two of them had been gifts from overly- expectant applicants to be her 'Daddy' years ago, when she'd put up a wishlist to an online shopping site on her profile page on a silly whim, and had been mortified when people actually starting _buying_ things for her!...she'd taken it down straightaway, not realizing that without it, she now had no way to return the items and refund the people who'd purchased them...so, with a slightly guilty conscience, she'd kept them. The shirt and ruffled shorts had been her own purchase, after coming across them in a regular shop one day...apparently, babyish, infantile-esque clothing was making some sort of weird, trendy comeback, like the big, footed sleepers she'd also seen...

She couldn't help but take it as a sign that maybe her 'fetish', taboo as it seemed, had a much larger following than she'd originally considered.

Molly took great care in laying out each outfit and stood over them, hugging Grumpy to her chest and pondering each selection..now that it was finally time to choose, she had _no_ idea what to wear.

The little girl sighed and looked down at her bear, while simultaneously tilting his head up to look right back at her; "...Any sugge'th'chun'th?"


	4. Chapter Four-Thin Ice

 

 

 

A pair of shiny, acrylic eyes stared back at her silently...which, given that Grumpy's mouth was nothing but dark blue embroidery thread stitched into a slight frown, the little morgue attendant really shouldn't have been surprised...but _no_ , this was Grumpy, and he'd always answered her before--he was just pouting and sullen now because she'd stuck him in the bag. Molly pouted right back at him; "You're no help!" she scolded, and plopped his furry blue bum back down onto the blanket.

Grumpy only looked back at her, motionless...and then tipped forward.

Where his heart-shaped button nose landed right on top of the onesie.

Molly stared at him blankly for a moment, before her pout turned into a bright, huge smile...she plucked Grumpy back up and squished him to her chest tightly as she spun around in an excited circle. "Fank'oo!" she bubbled, and quickly sat him down on the bed again (only she was _much_ nicer about it, this time), and began to tug off her outer clothes--she was just about to tug start unbuttoning her shirt when she stopped, hesitated, looked at Grumpy...then reached over and picked him up by one ear and turned him around until he was facing the opposite wall.

Now that she no longer had a pair of eyes on her, Molly was down to her bra and panties (a matching set from one of the nicer shops because, well...a girl never knows who just might end up seeing her in her undies, despite her best intentions) and was holding her onesie up, regarding it closely...

She'd fallen in love with it the very moment she'd unboxed it, and her only regret was that she could never thank the anonymous buyer for something that was so, so unbelievably _pretty_ : it was the palest of all pale blues, with pastel pink lace lining the neck, the top of the sleeves, and the tops of the legholes...and over the center of the chest, in a white oval of fabric outlined with the same pink lace, was a pink-frosted cupcake with a blue paper wrapper to match, with a big, glittery red cherry on top and tiny little seed pearls sewn on for sprinkles.

The whole thing reminded her of the antique cameo-style, and it made her feel delicate and beautiful in a way that not many of her grown-up clothes ever did.

Molly grinned as she slipped the baby-soft, stretchy fabric over her head and reached between her legs to bring the back flap forward and fasten it into place with bright, shiny pink-capped snaps. _'Thank God I remembered to shave my legs and-'_...she stopped and gasped out loud at the thought she'd been about to think, and then giggled madly--now that she was here, and getting ready for a, for a _playdate_ , she was getting giddy (and a bit light headed) and thinking all sorts of strange things. She snapped the last snap and turned to the mirror while making a few last 'adjustments'...like tugging the crotch down and stretching it a bit so it wouldn't be right up in...well, up in her _fold_ , basically (wearing a onesie without a nappy underneath wasn't very practical for modesty, to be honest...it was worse than a bathing suit{that, and the fact that she'd gained a little weight since the last time she'd worn it, but that's neither here nor there}), but when she finally looked up to see her reflection, she went completely still...

A little girl was staring back at her, a little girl that she hadn't seen in a _long_ time, when all that Molly had been expecting to see was another sad, pathetic attempt at an adult playing a really odd, disturbing game of dress- up.

The cute little girl in the mirror peered at Molly, turning her head this way and that...Molly giggled and waved, and kept giggling as she watched the girl continue to parrot her every movement.

And she would've kept right on waving and making faces at the other little girl (who looked so much like her, now that Molly thought about it), if there hadn't come a knock at the door that startled her and made her jump; "Molly?...Are you alright in there, sweetheart?"

Molly nodded vigorously, until she remembered that John couldn't see her through the door. "Ah'most done!" she called out, and hurried to stuff her other clothes back into her bag (after rescuing Peeper out from the dregs and apologizing for leaving her in there for so long...the little pink owl blinked her big, glossy eyes up at her in acceptance) and tucked both of her stuffies under one arm and stood facing the door, took one last deep breath, and then reached out to unlock it.

The doorknob began to turn, and Molly was nearly overcome with the singular urge to run and hide behind something...but she refused to give in. She'd come this far unscathed, and she was determined to get over this load of 'scared bunny' bunk, and finally have some fun. So, she kept her feet planted right where she was and hugged her plush babies close...but nothing could stop the blood from colouring her cheeks when John's head appeared around the door and saw her--the doctor's whole face lit up. "Who's this pretty girl, then?" he asked, fully entering the room and grinning as he looked her up and down (Molly didn't know if it was the mindset she was in, or if it was because John was the saintliest of all saintly men {in her eyes}, but she didn't feel 'leered' at as he did it).

Molly hugged her babies higher up around her neck and buried half her face, giggling all the while. "Me, Unca' Jawn," she answered shyly.

John put an over-exaggerated look of disbelief on his face; "Is that...? _No_ , it couldn't be Molly! The Molly I saw this afternoon wasn't smiling nearly half that much!"

Molly laughed again and shook her head; "Nooo, it _i'th_ Molly!"

John stepped closer and pushed the barricade of stuffed animals apart, as if he were trying to get a better look at her face to confirm how true this was. "Well, look at that!...You're right, you _are_ my little Molly-doll! My, what a pretty outfit can do for a girl's mood," he chuckled, and then noticed what he was pushing at. "Who're your friends, sweetheart?"

Yet, he received no answer...somewhere in between John establishing whether or not this little girl was indeed Molly and asking about her brightly-coloured friends, he'd completely lost her attention. Molly was standing on her toes, her feet still bare, and was trying to peek over his shoulder; "...Sher'yock?"

John grinned; _God_ , that was so damned cute. "I asked Sherlock to dig out some toys for you both to play with...want to go see what he's picked?" he asked, holding his hand out for hers.

Molly blinked up at him for a moment, and then nodded and switched her babies over to one arm before taking John's hand. He led her back out into the hallway and chatted with her, trying to get her to tell him about her 'friends' again, but Molly only wanted to talk about one thing; "Sher'yock? Sher'yock?...Sher'yock?"...the girl was stuck on an infinite loop.

The doctor felt like he should be offended, with her being more fixated on the detective than she was even as an adult (and that was saying something!)...but he couldn't be. It all seemed so innocent; just a little girl who's been waiting for _years_ for something other than disdain or indifference from her crush, and here she was, finally getting it...of course she was going to be excited. She should be!

_'Yeah, just give her some time to play with him one-on-one...let her see it's not all it's cracked up to be,'_ John thought with a faint smile, and agreed that it was a very logical idea.

Molly was the one tugging _him_ along now, hopping and skipping while she chanted her version of Sherlock's name, making a song and dance out of it--John gave a soft laugh through his nose, and just happened to look down; "Molly-girl, aren't your feet cold?" he asked, stopping in his tracks and causing her to do the same. Molly looked down at her feet and wriggled her toes, then shook her head. "Mm-mm!" she insisted, and tried to pull him after her again.

"Maybe we should put some socks on you, just in case," he replied, and was answered in a huff; "Nooooo..Come _on_ , Unca' Jawn, _play!_ " she urged, bracing her feet against the floor and leaning back to pull with all her might.

John didn't budge.

He stood upright in a perfect soldier's stance, watching as she yanked at his arm (thankfully it was his good arm, or they'd have an entirely different problem on their hands), and frowned; "Child, I know you're excited, but that's not very nice at all."

The impatient little girl stopped tugging and pouted at him, her eyebrows knitting together as she wrinkled her forehead and then tried to let go of her captor's hand completely...but no dice. John held on firmly--not intending to hurt her, but very much letting her know that this was _not_ how things worked around here. "Molly...no- _no_ ," he warned, furrowing his own brow right back at her...and he knew for a fact that his 'serious' face was FAR more impressive than hers.

Well, when she heard _that_ tone, paired with _that_ expression, Molly immediately straightened her act up...the last thing she wanted to do was get into trouble again so quickly (or at all); she let her hand go limp in his, bowed her head, and peeked up at him while she batted her lashes.

The doctor, however, was not quite so easily fooled anymore. "Sweetheart, you _know_ who I live with; I'm immune."

Startled by such unexpected...well, bluntness, Molly could only blink at him for a few moments...and then began to giggle.

...Alright, so he wasn't _completely_ immune.

John just couldn't resist a giggling baby, whether it be his own little one, or this newly-acquired foster-case--he felt himself starting to grin as well, and the reason for even scolding her in the first place quietly slipped from his thoughts. "You _are_ goin'ta be a handful...I knew it," he chuckled playfully, and reached out to teak her chin. "Fine, then...go find your your Sherlock," he said, and let go of her hand and gave her a pat on the backside to scoot her on her way.

Molly used that pat as her 'go' signal and skipped off towards the sitting room, her bare feet slapping against the floor until she hit the carpeted section, where she came to such a sudden stop that she had to go up on her toes to keep from falling flat onto her face. Sherlock was there, just as John said he would be...or at least, as far as Molly could tell, it was Sherlock: all she could see of the detective was a blue-and-white plaid-covered bum in the air, while the whole top half of the figure was buried somewhere in the depths of a dusty-looking cardboard box. The littlest morgue attendant tilted her head, watching as the (very obviously) padded bum dipped and dove around before her, and every so often a ridiculously long arm would appear and drop a carefully-selected toy on the floor nearby...the toys caught her attention, of course, but only for a moment--mostly, Molly focused on the big blue bum waving at her, with a concentration very similar to the way a bull will watch a red flag. A slow, Cheshire-cat-like smile pulled at the corners of her lips, and she quietly padded over to the couch and put her babies down, well out of harm's way.

John stood at the edge of the hallway, held his phone out, and hit 'record'.

Molly crept up behind the distracted little detective as quietly as she possibly could (which proved to be pretty quiet, as long as she kept her lips firmly pressed around her dummy to stifle the giggles), and waited until she was practically no more than a hair's breadth away to lower herself to her knees and reach out with both hands...

...and promptly jabbed her fingers (hard) into the soft spots right above Sherlock's hips.

There was a split second of calm, right before the little detective genuinely cleared the floor by a good three inches and emitted a sound not all that dissimilar to a startled cat as he landed and whirled around to face his attacker, his arms crossed in front and clutching his violated love handles.

His attacker, however, had fallen back to avoid being knocked into next week and was currently sitting flat on her bum, legs splayed, and was clutching her own sides while shaking with soundless, open-mouthed laughter.

Sherlock scowled at her, and looked to John for help.

His help, _however_ , was in no better shape...John was doubled-over, one hand braced on his knee and the other gripping his belly in a fit of honking laughs, with tears streaming down his cheeks.

Sherlock's expression darkened even more; "You're both _idiots._ "

Molly reached up and swiped at her eyes while she tried to catch her breathe; "Aw, Sh-sher'yock," she wheezed, in between residual giggles, and held her arms out for an apology hug.

She only received a glare for her effort.

Over on his side of the room, john's braying noises ( _'how suitable a description for a **jackass**_ ,' Sherlock thought) were coming to a gasping, coughing halt, too. "G-go on, give'er a h- hu-...oh, oh _G-god!_ I can't b-breathe!...a hug, Sh-sherlock," he stuttered, nearly choking on his own words as he passed his sleeve over his alarmingly-red face.

The not-as-little-minded-as-he-was-minutes-ago detective turned his burning gaze onto the doctor, and thought about how, if it had been _him_ acting in Molly's place and scaring the daylights out of _her_ , he would have been bared and flung over John's knee before Molly even landed back on earth...or, bare minimum (pun fully intended and acknowledged), a stinging smack on the bottom and a lecture that would have reduced him to tears anyhow, followed up by a trip to the corner that would have lasted forever and a day. But, he didn't voice any of this (it would have done nothing to alleviate the situation, even if he did); he only shifted his eyes back to Molly, his expression still sour. "That really hurt," he muttered, and continued to massage his sides.

The giggles stopped almost instantly, and Molly's face fell; "...Sher'yock?" she asked, not sounding so pleased with herself anymore, and slowly drew her arms back.

John, sensing the change in the air the way an animal senses an impending natural disaster, stood up and cleared his throat--"Sherlock..." he said, keeping his voice calm and steady, so as not to tip the fragile balance and set off dual toddler typhoons of tears. "Sherlock, Molly's only little...she didn't mean anything by it."

The detective arched his eyebrow--' _'Didn't mean it', my well-toned white arse,'_ he thought as he regarded the girl across from him, who was reaching up to wind a piece of her fine, straight hair around a finger and tug on it (harder than what would be considered comfortable, Sherlock deemed) while her gaze flicked from him, to the floor...when her chin began to quiver, he rolled his eyes: was she going to cry over _everything?_

"Sherlock," John said again...it was all he said out loud, but one could hardly miss the look in his eye that said _'you have the power to stop this,'_ , and the corresponding head tilt in Molly's direction. _'Take care of it...now.'_

The little detective glanced back at Molly; now her face was beginning to scrunch, and the tugging on her hair increased. Sherlock sighed...and then opened his arms to her.

Molly looked up at him with glassy eyes; "...Sh-sher'yock?" she sniffled.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes again (while she was watching), Sherlock made an impatient ' _well, come on then!_ '-motion with his hands.

In an instant, he had a lap full of weepy little morgue attendant clinging to him like a koala bear to a tree. "Sorry," she sniffled in his ear and, for a moment, the little detective didn't know what to make of the situation...Molly was even clingier than 'Jawn', and her apparent attachment to him kept throwing him off...but it was _only_ a moment, and then he was slowly bringing his arms around her and snuggling her back. "It's okay."

"M-mad?..."

"No, not 'mad'," he sighed again, and propped his chin on her shoulder, while hers was propped on his. "Just...not so _hard_ next time, 'kay?" He felt Molly nod quickly, and then lay her cheek against him.

They sat like that, cuddled together, for Sherlock-didn't-keep-track-of-how-long, with the only sound in the room coming from Molly and her dummy.

So, that made the already-not-stealthy sound from John's phone as he took a picture of them together, even more noticeable.

Sherlock slowly raised his eyes and gave John one of the most caustic bitch-faces he could manage, and stuck out the middle finger of the hand he was using to rub Molly's back with.

John could hardly fuss at him for that, though...he was too busy beaming down at his phone's screen. _This_ picture was well-worth any reciprocation the little detective may have been (who are we kidding? Of course he was) plotting as we speak...

Having already decided just how he was going to cause John to destroy his own phone (get him out, get him drunk, get him to go for a piss, follow him, get him 'worked up'...and _whoops!_ phone in the toilet), Sherlock turned his attention back to Molly--as much as he loved to cuddle when he was little, he was ready to get up and play...and besides, his legs were starting to grow weary and tingle from the way she was sitting on them. He looked around and, spying trusty old Mr. Bumble lying within arm's reach, snatched him up by an antennae and held him up in front of Molly's face. "Y'ook...y'ook, Maw'yee!" he said, and gave the plush toy a squeeze and making the wings flash every colour imaginable while it hummed.

The little girl sat up, looking positively disheveled with her hair plastered to her damp cheek and a downcast expression...until she locked eyes with the fabulously bright Mr. Bumble, widening until the little detective could see the flashes reflected in them, and reached for it with a quiet "Oooo," of appreciation.

Sherlock giggled and placed it in her outstretched hand, then waited until she was studying it intently before scooting her off of his lap...upon doing so, he let out a small sigh of relief as he stretched his legs out and flexed his toes.

"Aw," John said, pushing himself away from the wall he'd been leaning against and came to stand behind Molly. While she was distracted, he bent down and combed the hair out of her face with his fingers; "...Is Sherlock bein' nice and sharing his bee with you, yeah?"

Molly tilted her head back and smiled up at him, making her nose scrunch, and held the toy up for him proudly, as proof.

"Oh, I see," the doctor chuckled, pulling her hair back into the 'ponytail' style, and then regretting that he didn't bring along her giant bag of elastics and ribbons with him as he let it slip through his fingers and fall down her back. "Is he talking to you? What's he sayin', hm?"

The little girl held the bee by her ear and appeared to listen to whatever it could possibly be 'saying' to her, then peered back up at John, all serious business-like, and imitated the toy's humming sound.

"Is that so? _No_ , couldn't be...!" John replied as he sat in his armchair, highly amused, and looked over to see what Sherlock was getting into--the little detective was back on his hands and knees again, and was obviously searching for something, the way he was digging through the pile of toys he'd pulled out. "Sherlock?...what are you looking for, love?"

Sherlock sat back on his heels, and the Daddy/doctor took a moment to appreciate how sweet he looked (and how fantastic it was that he'd picked an outfit that happened to go with Molly's) in his plaid short pants and matching blue shirt, the one with a smiling sun giving a frowning raincloud a hug embroidered on the front, when John finally noticed that the little raincloud wasn't the only one frowning. "What's the matter, baby?"

The little detective put a finger to his mouth and bit the tip of it as he gave the floor around him another close scan before answering him; "...dropped my dummy, can't find it," he said sadly.

"Aw, no...when Molly scare--, uh, surprised you? Well, its got to be around here somewhere, love," John replied, beckoning him with an extended arm...Sherlock wasted no time in crawling right over and situating himself between his Daddy's legs, hugging him tightly and burying his face into his soft, squishy jumper. John smiled fondly as he held him close, and kissed the top of his head; "It's _okay_ , you little drama queen," he said, with every bit of affection he could muster. "That's why we have two hundred of those things; you know they like to play hide-and-seek from us..."

But Sherlock was no longer listening. "Hi'-an'-see?" he repeated as he sat up, his face bright and without the slightest hint of a pout. "Hi'-an'-see, Daddy?"

_'Damn.'_ "Sherlock, you know Daddy's no good at that game..." John began weakly, knowing that this particular battle was as good as lost before it even began--'hide-and-seek' was little Sherlock's _favourite_ game (now that 'keep-away' was no longer allowed), yet his Daddy was...a little less enthused.

Mainly because Sherlock could curl up and hide in any number of impossible spots for a man of his size for quite literally _hours_ at a time while John searched and fretted...yet the doctor himself could barely last five minutes. "Maybe later, lad...I don't think Molly wants to play that game right now," he said, looking over to the little girl in question in hopes that she'd actually agree with him--

Molly was still fascinated with Sherlock's bee, even thought the timer had finally run out on its flashing light show. She turned the squishy toy over and around in her hands, and made impatient little noises at it when it refused to turn back on. "On!" she fussed, shaking it up and down as a last resort; "Bzzzz, _on!_...Bzzzz!"

John laughed and leaned back in his chair; "Help her out Sherlock, before Bumble loses an antennae!"

Sherlock reluctantly released his dual handfuls of jumper and stared at Molly and her antics while sucking on his bottom lip (since he had nothing else [within appropriate reason] available to satisfy his oral fixation)...and then grabbed the stuffed animal right out of her hands and tossed it away before John could stop him. Before John could utter much more than " _Oi!_ ", actually, the little detective scooted out of his Daddy's immediate reach and grabbed Molly's now-empty hands in his own to get her attention. "Hi'-an'-see, Maw-yee?!" he babbled excitedly, bouncing and overhyping it just so she'd forget all about the toy and do what _he_ wanted.

Molly had watched it sail over her head with a baffled expression, yet the moment Sherlock put his hands on her, there was nothing (and no one) else in the room _but_ him. His giddy joy automatically transferred over to her, and she was soon giggling and bouncing just like him. "Th'ee-th'ee-th'ee!"

The little detective squealed happily and started to climb to his feet...until he felt a familiar hand hook into the back of his shorts and nappy and pull him backwards until he was sitting flat on his bottom, between John's knees. The doctor held him in place and leaned forward, right next to Sherlock's ear, and spoke in a low voice...so low, that the little detective had to listen very, very carefully to what was said; "Go pick up that toy, _now_ , and put it away...and if you throw anything, or take anything else _from_ her, not only will Molly see you get a spanking, she'll get to see you sit in time-out all by yourself while she and I go on and play without you...understood?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, feeling his throat beginning to close in on itself painfully while tears stung the corners of his eyes...the threat of a spanking was bad, yes, especially in front of someone (he couldn't help but feel that this was a bit of retribution for that day at the clinic, even though...technically...no one had been around... _technically_ ), but it was the threat of being excluded...cast out...that made his stomach drop.

That, along with the fact that Daddy was using _that_ voice with him...THE voice...was what broke his little heart. "Yes, sir," he whispered, fighting back tears, and felt John's hand let go. He crawled over to where the fallen toy lay, half-expecting to be swatted right then and there, since he was putting himself in prime position (short of being bare)...but there was nothing. Sherlock risked a glance over his shoulder and saw John with his hand on Molly's back, whispering to her in the same way he'd just whispered to the little detective, only it was obvious that what he was saying to her was _much_ nicer than what he'd said to him.

And, instead of actively listening to the doctor, she was only nodding every so often, sucking on her dummy...while staring directly at _him_.

Sherlock turned away from the intensity of her gaze, now that he'd been made self-conscious in 'little' headspace, but even then, he could still feel it on him...two hot spots boring right into his back end. He fetched the toy and hurried back, keeping his head low and hoping that the colour that had risen to his cheeks would be mistaken for the embarrassment of being scolded...

Thankfully, it was.

John was beaming as he watched the little detective put the stuffed bee back in Molly's hands with the greatest of care (that he usually reserved for more delicate experiments), and then looked to his Daddy for a sign that he'd done the right thing. "Good?..."

John chuckled and reached out to ruffle his little boy's hair; " _Very_ good," he agreed, and went to pull Sherlock in for a hug...and was surprised when he shrank back. It was then that he noticed how stiff the little detective seemed, and how red his cheeks were. "Aw, lad...I'm sorry I had to use the 'mean' voice, but we talked about sharing before Molly got here, didn't we?"

Sherlock nodded, but still turned away when John drew close.

The doctor stopped, and then sighed... _dammit_ , they's just gotten comfortable enough to start playing, until he had to put his foot down. Well, there was only one way to fix it, now...John had backed himself into a corner."Alright...let's play hide-and-seek."


	5. Chapter Five-Cracks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I'm back! *waves* Sorry for the longer-than-previously-imagined hiatus, but, you know...life. 
> 
> So, here's the long-awaited update; I hope you all enjoy! 
> 
> ~Sadie

"Let's play Hide-and-Seek."

Sherlock turned a pair of bright, hopeful eyes back at him; "...Hi'-an'-see?"

John sighed, but he was smiling as he nodded; "Yes, _yes_ , you little beggar...you get your wish."

Of course he did!...The little detective gave his Daddy one of his prize-winning smiles, the kind that reached all the way to his eyes, and rushed to climb up from the floor, dragging Molly's hand with him. "C'mon, Maw'yee...hide!" The little girl's head snapped up to look at him in surprise and forgot all about the bee she'd just been cooing over, letting it fall from her hands. "Hi'?...Hi-hi-hi-hi!..." she repeated, once Sherlock's enthusiasm began to catch on.

"Ah-ah-ah, just wait a second... _rules!_ " John called out, raising his voice slightly to catch their attention before he had two big babies running loose through the flat. "We need to go over the rules first, Sherlock!"

Both littles froze in their tracks at the very first hint of authority in the doctor's voice, and shared a look between each other before turning their eyes on him.

_'They look like bookends,'_ John thought, with a highly amused snort--well, they did!...holding hands in their adorable blue outfits, both of them bare-legged and barefoot and wide-eyed...God, it was as if an illustration from a children's book had been ripped out and given life...

Well, okay...maybe an 'unusual' children's book, but still.

"Molly is our guest; she gets to hide first," he began, "...and you have to give her a head start, Sherlock--she's littler than you, so give her a chance to actually _hide_ before you find her." The little girl really did need every advantage she could get against the little detective...if she didn't get to hide first, she'd never get a chance to--she and John would spend the entire time searching for him while he stuffed himself into some square foot of space in the wall for and hour and a half!

In any case, Molly looked extremely pleased with this turn of events and nodded with appropriate enthusiasm, while Sherlock didn't appear quite as thrilled, but nodded anyway...but it was the next rule he was about to announce that John knew would be the real kicker; "And you're both staying down here...I don't want _you_ climbing the stairs by yourself," he said, pointing at Molly and then pointing at the little detective, "...and I don't want _you_ tempting her up there."

This was met with dual resounding 'AWWW!'s, just as he'd guessed. "There's nowhere to hide down here, Daddy!" Sherlock complained. "All of the good spots are up there!"

"Sherlock Holmes, I know for a fact that you have no less than half a dozen hiding spots in any given room of this flat...oh, and no going out the windows, either!"

"That is not _fair!_ " With this last protest, Sherlock stomped his foot for emphasis on 'fair'...and came dangerously close to Molly's foot in the process. "All of those rules are against me!"

John, focused on the scant inch that had been the saving grace for the little girl's toes, took a deep breath; "They aren't 'against' you--they are to help make it fun for both of you," he said, slow and measured, "...and if you don't want to play by them, you can go to your room for Quiet Time...by yourself."

Some of the defiance in the little detective's gaze faltered.

"But that's not going to happen, because we're going to listen to the rules...aren't we, Sherlock?"

The giant toddler pouted, but nodded 'yes'.

"Okay?"

"...Okay," he repeated quietly.

"Okay."

Molly stood there quietly, watching the exchange between the two...and then leaned into Sherlock's side, hugging his arm (which was about the same length as her whole torso) to her chest and hiding her face behind his bicep.

Sherlock looked down at her, amazed...and snuggled her right back.

John beamed; "See?...She wants to play with you, lad--it's up to you to be a good boy to get the chance."

The little detective glanced over in his Daddy's direction, then back down at his clingy playmate..." 'kay, I listen."

"Good boy...yes, that's my good, sweet, brilliant little boy!" John said, beaming even brighter still, and stepped over to the little pair and gave Sherlock's unencumbered shoulder a kiss, and then managed to pry the barnacle that was Molly Hooper from the other. "Alright, Molly's turn!..." he said, moving behind the little detective and turning him around, as well as covering his eyes. "Go on, go hide...quickly! One...two...three... _go_ , you've got until ten before I turn him loose!"

The little girl's eyes widened in a highly comical fashion and she began to frantically look around for a place to hide...Sherlock was right (what else was new?!); there were _no_ good places down here! There was only the bedroom (Sherlock's bedroom...but dammit, that would be the first place he'd look for her), the bathroom, kitchen, sitting room--she wasn't going to last more than a minute against that giant know-it-all, unless...

Molly looked over at the stairs, and then made a hurried glance at John to see if he was watching.

John had his back to her and was taken up with with wrangling the little detective, keeping him faced away and his eyes completely covered while Sherlock giggled and tried to squirm out of the man's grip for a peek.

...Molly took her chance and darted up the stairs, keeping to the balls of her feet to reduce the amount of noise.

Of course, she could have elephant-stomped up the stairs and shouted her whereabouts to the whole of Baker Street, and the doctor _still_ would have been more preoccupied with keeping Sherlock distracted and snorting with laughter from having his ribs tickled.

The sly little girl took one last look over her shoulder, then disappeared over the landing.

John kept counting (when he remembered to count...he did have to start over once or twice) aloud as he wrestled the little detective to the floor and pinned him facedown, only to finally look up and see that Molly was gone. "Alright--ready or not, here he comes!" he called out, and let Sherlock scramble out from underneath him. "Go sniff her out, super sleuth!"

The little red-faced, frizzy-haired boy scurried to climb to his feet and looked about with a wide, excited grin splayed across his face. John stood back to watch, nudging a few toys off to the side with his foot...he should have had them clean up first, but right now, he figured a bit of actual playtime was more important.

Still giggling, Sherlock sprinted over to the kitchen, his eyes scanning back and forth quickly; "...Maw'yee?"

There was no answer, obviously, and it took the detective no more than a few seconds to realize that Molly wasn't actually there, instead of simply not answering him. He repeated the same routine with both the bathroom and his bedroom (he thought for sure she'd be there, hiding in his clothes!...he even went so far as to look behind the toilet and out the window) before returning to John, completely at a loss. This really puzzled the doctor; "No where?" he asked incredulously.

Sherlock gnawed on the knuckle of one thumb and shook his head...then cast a pointed look at the stairs.

John felt his jaw tighten; "...You think she's up there?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond before turning back to face John...with one of his usual snarky answers, from the look on his face...but a quick assessment of the doctor's expression and posture caused him to reconsider. "Think so," he said, using the nicest, most polite 'I'm-a-good-boy' tone imaginable.

John put his hands on his hips, inhaled deeply, and gave a quick jerk of his head in the direction of the stairs; "...Go get her."

That was all Sherlock needed to hear.

He bounded up the steps two and three at a time, scaling them in seconds, and deliberately not being quiet about it. "Maw'yee?...Maw'yee... _Molly!_ " he whisper-shouted as he reached the hallway. "You're going to get into trouble!"

No answer.

The little detective huffed--so, she was good at the game, _fantastic_...but her being better at it than previously expected wasn't going to do HIM a bit of good if she got herself put into time-out while he had to wait for it to be over so they could play again.

BORING.

Sherlock stood there for another moment, contemplating his options, and then went straight for the most obvious one--John's old room.

Yes, even though the doctor was pretty much established in Sherlock's room and spent nearly every night in there (except for those rare occasions when he was booted out for snoring too loudly, stealing blankets, or any other number of disgustingly 'male' habits), they still kept the room as John's room, still his own space. There was still John's bed, his clothes, his work-related gear...most of his things. The detective...and he was The Detective now, no 'little' about it...looked for apparent signs of disturbance: blankets shifted, pillow moved three degrees askance, the carpet in front of the closet door having been rustled (the wood in the door had warped during one notably cold winter, and it had been scraping the floor ever since), a flurry of dust motes still floating in the air from the curtain being pulled aside--it seemed that Molly had considered several potential hiding places.

Sherlock paused, listened...and then picked the bed.

... _Stupid_ man.

He'd just lowered himself onto his knees and leaned down to yank up the blankets with a shout of "BOO!" to an unexpectedly empty space, when he heard the knob of the closet door being turned and the door being forcibly shoved open...and he realized he'd made the most grievous error.

Before he could sit back up, he heard Molly giggling up a storm, followed by an extremely loud _***WHUMP***_ as a heavy-handed (heavy enough to drive his face into the carpet) swat landed right across the middle of his backside and a series of muffled footsteps thumping out of the room and down the hall, towards the stairs.

Sherlock rushed to get up from off his knees with shouts of "HEY!" after her--nevermind the fact that she'd both outwardly defied John and actually struck _him_ , but now she was running...down the stairs, at that!...and he was well-versed in what kind of catastrophes came from running around in this flat. "Molly, stop!"

Honestly....it never worked out for anyone!

He made it out into the hallway just in time to see the top of Molly's head disappear the top step, giggling and babbling; "Nononononononononocan'tcatch!"

John was already waiting at the bottom, his expression unchanged. "Molly, don't ru--!" he began, and put his arm out to catch her...only to have her ignore him, zig to the side, and dash between the couch and the low table, still giggling and shrieking as if it were all in good fun.

Sherlock could see what was coming next and cringed, screwing his eyes closed tightly...

***BANG!***

The laughter in the room stopped instantly, and an eerie, almost palpable silence took its place.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

He found John first, standing in mostly the same spot he had been, with both hands at his mouth and his eyes nearly bugging wide open as he stared at Molly...

And oh, _Molly_.

The little girl was hunched over into a small (impossibly small) little ball on the floor in the gap between the table and couch, and was clutching her left foot in both hands...she wore a similar wide, bulging-eyed expression to John's, her mouth hanging open in utter shock as she processed what had just happened...

No one dared move--hell, there was hardly a breath drawn among them.

Not until Molly closed her eyes, took a deep, shaky breath...and _screamed_ at the top of her lungs.

That was the starting pistol; John sprang into action and was at her side in two strides as Sherlock leapt down the remainder of the stairs, hot on the doctor's heels. By the time he caught up, John was kneeling next to Molly and trying (rather unsuccessfully) to gently move her hands out of the way so he could get a look at the extent of her injury (because she _was_ injured--there was no way a person could ram their bare foot into a solid wood table leg and knock the whole thing [table, not the foot] a good two inches to the side without having some sort of soft tissue damage). "Molly, sweetheart, let Uncle John see...shhhh, I know, I know it hurts, doll, but I can't fix it if I can't see it, can I?"

Molly was having none of that nonsense, however. She pushed the helpful hands away, sobbing uncontrollably and clutching her injured foot as if that were the only thing keeping it attached at all.

...And since Sherlock couldn't see any blood, he had high hopes that that wasn't the case.

John was still struggling to work around her hands, yet remain patient; "You have to let me see, darling," he sighed, and upon failing to out-maneuver someone in the mentality of a young toddler, looked around desperately for something, _anything_ , to distract her with. Sherlock, eager to help out and be involved in some way other than the useless hovering he was already doing, went for the pile of toys he'd pulled out earlier...but a flash of blue in the corner of his vision stopped him. There was a stuffed bear...Molly's bear, and her pink owl, lying there on the couch.

The little detective grabbed it up, and thrust it into John's face.

The doctor started back at the suddenness of it, uncomprehending of why he now had a face full of musty, synthetic fur...then gave Sherlock a slow smile as the significance dawned on him. "Good lad; _smart_ lad," he uttered as he took it and held it in Molly's line of sight. "Look, Molly--who's this, then? You never did tell me his name, did you?" he asked, his tone soft.

Molly looked up, covered in tears and so heavily flushed that she appeared beaten and bruised. "B-buh-bear," she stammered in between sobs and coughs, and reached for it with one hand--she may have been deep into headspace, but was aware enough to know what John had in mind.

John pulled the bear away; "No, doll," he said quietly, "...both hands."

Molly shook her head violently and grabbed at her foot again, curling up into an even tighter ball and sobbing just as brokenly as before.

The doctor sagged a little, defeated (he had been so sure that would have worked...it usually did at the clinic!), and let his arm drop. He sat back on his haunches and thought...and thought...and thought some more, until he came to rest on an idea--it certainly wasn't the best of ideas, for true, but he was no Sherlock, and this was the best idea he could come up with under the circumstances.

Speaking of...

He looked to the little detective, who was still looming over the both of them. John didn't say a word---he didn't _have_ to; the slight shift of his gaze over to the couch spoke wordless volumes. Sherlock nodded his understanding and slipped behind Molly, then climbed up on the couch...and in one fluid motion, he grasped the sobbing little girl under the arms and lifted her onto his lap, then grasped her left wrist in his right hand and vice-versa in a secure grip, crossing her arms over her chest and pinning them to her sides, much like a straightjacket.

The whole move was so quick, so sudden, that Molly's sobbing came to an abrupt halt--at least, it was quiet long enough for her to try and pull her hands out of his grip, figure out that she was stuck fast, and realize _why_ she was being held...

Her face twisted into a horrible scowl as she stook a deep breath...and let out another ear-splitting screech.

_'Jesus Christ, she's even louder than him!'_ John thought, wincing painfully as he knelt in front of the pair. "Molly...MOLLY..." He was loathe to raise his voice in the situation, what with her hurt and already crying, but there was no way he would have been heard otherwise; "You had your chance to listen to Uncle John, yeah? But you didn't, you couldn't be a big girl, so that's why your Sherlock's holdin' yah."

Molly kept struggling against the (surprisingly strong) lanky man's grip, but only succeeded in infuriating herself even further when she failed in breaking free. "Le'go le'go le'go _LE'GO ah'me!_ " she sobbed as she twisted every which way in those inconveniently large hands.

"He will...just as soon as I get a good look at your foot," John replied.

"NO NO NO NO NO NO NO DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN _**DOWN!!!**_ " Molly was in an absolute fury, and it showed on every inch of her ruddy, scrunched, tear-covered face, mouth open in a near-constant howl as she while she kicked at John's hands and threw herself back against Sherlock's chest to knock the breathe out of him...he figured there was a very good chance of getting bitten, even, and the little detective took great care in leaning far back and keeping his appendages out of harm's way.

...It was a tantrum--a full-blown, Molly Hooper-sized tantrum, the likes of which neither men had ever imagined coming from such a meek little girl!

John managed to get ahold of her injured foot around the ankle (luckily she was a tiny thing; his fingers could span it with ease), setting off a chorus of aggravated grunts as she tried to scrape his hand away with her other foot. "Stopstopstopstopstopstopstopstop _stoooooooooooooop_ , owiiiie!"

"Young lady, _if_ you kick me, you'll have a bigger problem than a sore toe," John said, his tone taking on that slow, yet deathly serious edge that Sherlock recognized all too well...one that always had his buttocks clenching involuntarily. He leaned in as close as he deemed safe to the little girl's ear (lest he get a bloody nose for his worries, and then her bum would be well out of his efforts for saving) and whispered loudly; "Molly, he will spank if you test him...and it _stings!_ "

Miraculously, it was that specific word (and you know very well which one it was) that wormed it's way through the stormcloud of frustration whirling about Molly's head and stuck, catching her attention and, thankfully, getting her...well, it couldn't accurately be said that it 'calmed' her, but it did work in getting her to be a lot less volatile...and _kicky_.

This was quite an intriguing, if intense, moment, and even through his concern, part of Sherlock's curiosity was piqued as to how it could play out...the three of them tripped over the topic of discipline and how it could be handled lunch the previous week, and it had been...'interesting', to say the least. Molly'd guessed that John used spanking (assumed, really, and only because she remembered that it had been such a large point of contention between them during her brief stint as 'Mummy'), and bashfully admitted that while she'd never been smacked before, even as a child, she was still strangely enticed by the idea "as long as from, uh, s-someone that I _know_ , you know?...and trust, yeah! Nothing brutal!" John quickly assured her that 'brutal' was one thing that he most certainly wasn't, and after a discreet nudge with the toe of a boot to his shin, the detective readily agreed.

John had covered the young woman's trembling hand with his own that day, and with his warmest, most heartening 'Daddy' voice ( so much so that Sherlock had felt a pang in his chest, even though it wasn't directed at him...or maybe _because_ it wasn't) told her; "You'll always have your safeword, Molly--this is supposed to be fun, so if anything gets to be too much, just call it out and we'll drop everything and take care of you," he said with a smile that could melt the iciest of all icy hearts.

But that day seemed a lot further back than merely a week past now, though, the way the two were looking daggers at each other--John with his unwavering, 'I'm-not-fucking-kidding', hard-as-steel Captain's glare, and Molly with her blustery, 'you're-going-to-have-to-make-me', huffing staredown with her bottom lip jutting out (funnily enough, but it didn't detract from the intensity of the situation).

...Both kept staring; neither wanting to be the first to break contact.

This time, mainly for the fact that it wasn't Sherlock he was competing with, John proved to be the victor. "Alright," he said as Molly at last dropped her gaze and blinked the heavy tears from her eyes. "Alright, there we go, nice and easy. I'm going to look at your foot, _carefully_ , and you're going to be a good girl and let me, yeah?...you might even get a treat if you can stay still."

His words took the little detective, who was precariously balanced between 'big' and 'little' headspaces after all the commotion and quick shifts in mental gears, by surprise...a _treat?_ After that attitude?! John had never (would never!) offered him any sort of reward after, after such a strop! That wasn't fair, he couldn't just do that...! Why would he--?!

Molly was new...and a _girl_. John had liked girls before. John was _favouring_ her.

It stung, thinking in these terms, and Sherlock grew quiet.

In the meantime, John had already released Molly's ankle and, before she could pull away, taken her whole foot in both hands and was manipulating the damaged area with smooth, delicate touches. But as light as they were, Molly still couldn't stop from flinching and crying out, though nowhere near her previous volume.

"Shh-sh-sh, I know it hurts," John said, his voice hushed. He frowned slightly at the rate it was swelling, not to mention the cloud of bruising that was starting to creep higher up onto the bridge of her foot. "I think you can let go of her hands now, love, and let her hold her Bear."

Several moments passed, with no reaction whatsoever from the little detective. John glanced up, and noticed the glazed, faraway look on Sherlock's face. "Lad?...'ey, Sherlock!" he said, then gave a short, sharp whistle and snapped his fingers right in front of the younger man's nose. "Back to planet Earth now!"

Sherlock flinched and blinked at the sudden noise, and kept blinking until John saw the sense of awareness return to his eyes. "You hearin' me now, love?" he asked with a slight smile...he couldn't help but think the blinky thing a wonderfully endearing little habit, even as adult-Sherlock.

The little detective blinked again, his eyelashes fluttering, then turned his refocused gaze back on the doctor and nodded.

"Did you hear what Daddy said?" No, of course he hadn't.

Sherlock hesitated, then shook his head.

John chuckled quietly. "That's alright, but I need you to pay attention now, okay? Because I'm going to need a helper, a _special_ helper, and you're just the boy for the job, aren't yah Sherlock?" An enthusiastic nod this time; Sherlock loved helping! "Good boy...you can go ahead and let go of Molly's hands now, and I bet she'd love you forever if you gave her her bear."

Sherlock did just that, albeit slowly, as if he expected her to jump up and run off all over again (had he been thinking clearly, he would have realized there was no longer a possibility of that...Molly wouldn't be 'running' anywhere anytime soon), so he kept one arm around her waist as he reached over and took up the plush toy, then put it in her waiting hands. Molly buried her face into it with a muffled sob and a sniffle, and John continued with his examination. "There, you can just tell him how mean Uncle John is being," he said, gently pressing the side of her toe with his fingertips, feeling for a fracture while the little girl wriggled and snuffled into her bear.

"Hm...might be broken," he mumbled, thinking out loud more than actually speaking to them. "Maybe not; doesn't have to be set, anyway..."

Molly peeked out from underneath Grumpy's ear; "B-broke?" she whimpered, horrified at the notion.

Of course John, ever the vigilant Protector of Littles, heard the scared little voice and gave her an apologetic, but hopefully comforting, smile; "It might be, doll...no, no, it's okay, it's going to be alright, I _swear_ , but it's going to be very, very sore for the next few days--we're going to put some ice on it now, and that'll help it feel a bit better, yeah? Sound good?"

Apparently not that good; Molly sniffled and shook her head. "N-no, no t-touch."

John clucked his tongue; "I'm sorry, dear," he said, sympathetic to her plight but clearly anticipating another fit, "but we have to, else it'll swell up like a balloon!--or, maybe you'd like that..." He was playing with her now, trying to get her to at the very least smile instead of scream. "A big inflated, squeaky toe that you could twist up into different animals!" He reached up and poked her belly, right underneath the big, pink cupcake.

Success, it worked! The corner's of the little girl's mouth twitched ever so slightly as she covered her tummy with her hand; " 'top, Unc'a Jawn!" she said with a raspy giggle.

"You sound like Sherlock after one of his fits," John mused as he pushed himself up from the floor and struggled not to grunt with the effort. "Stay right here and I'll make you a bottle; Sherlock--" he waited until the little detective made eye contact and showed that he was paying attention,"--remember what I said about needing a helper, yeah?...Good, right, Daddy needs you to keep the baby off her feet and up there with you, okay? Just for a minute, and I'll be right back." He walked backwards towards the hallway as he spoke, wanting to minimize the time these two were out of his sight--Molly had already proven herself to be more of a handful than anyone had anticipated, and although he had two perfectly functioning hands capable of _handling_ that handful...well, little (and big) Sherlock was enough to fill those both in his own right.

But as loathe as John was to take his attention away from them yet again, even if only for a moment, he really didn't have a choice.

Two sets of eyes watched the doctor's retreating back as he finally turned around, and kept watching until he was out of sight. Sherlock craned his neck to keep him in his view as he rounded the corner, but the weight nestled over his legs impeded his attempt and he gave up with a small sigh...what was he expected to do with _this_ thing?!?

He sucked in his bottom lip and worried it with his teeth, still watching...and when it was clear that John wasn't coming straight back, he looked down at the 'this thing' currently inhabiting his lap. Molly stared back up at him, her head tilted back against his shoulder and noisily sucking the thumb and forefinger on the same hand that gripped her bear's ear...it appeared that she'd lost her dummy somewhere during all the fracas, and was in the same boat as the little detective, making do with whatever she could get near her mouth. But although the skin around them was swollen, puffy, and rubbed raw, her eyes themselves were remarkably clear and bright, and watching him with an inexplicable amount of attention.

Sherlock frowned; "You're not that cute," he grumbled, even though part of him knew that he was only being contrary from the lack of adult attention.

Molly must have sensed it, too--her response was to smile back, then reach up and grab onto his nose...with her _wet_ hand. "Sher'yock," she cooed, and giggled at the face he made.

Sherlock squinched his face shut at the warm, sticky touch, and cracked an eye open to glare at her; "...G'woss."

This sent the little girl into right hysterics of bubbly laughter as she laid back in the crook of his arm and made herself at home. "Nuh-uh, I not!"

"Are so," Sherlock answered back, nodding with the seriousness of which he took the matter. He swiped the back of his hand across his nose, wiping away any not-dried Molly spit...right before licking his own thumb to get it good and coated, and drawing a snail-trail right between her eyes.

Molly tried turning away when she saw it coming but it was too late; he nailed her dead center. _"Ewwwwwww!"_ she shrieked, and smacked his hand away. "Doooooooooon't!"

The little detective looked extremely satisfied with himself (not that this was anything new) for proving a point, but it was short-lived; no sooner than he said "See? G'woss...", that John decided to pick that moment to pop back into the room, with Molly's empty bottle in one hand, frowning at them. "Sherlock, **behave** ," he snapped, and then ducked into the kitchen before the boy could insist that it wasn't his fault!

Molly smirked up at his gawping, offended expression; "You gots in trouble," she sang, just quiet enough to be out of John's earshot.

If being snapped at hadn't been enough of a stab to the heart, then Molly's addition was taking the knife handle and twisting it...slowly. "You started it!" he said, meaning to hiss at her with enough blistering fervor to wipe that snotty, smarmy little smile right off her face...but it only came out petulant and whingy, even to his own ears, and Molly dove right on it. "But YOU got yelled at," she taunted, pleased as punch and clearly no longer bothered about the pain in her foot in light of this new game. She drew her knees up and hugged them, rocking back and forth slightly; "...'cause I'mma _angel_."

Sherlock scoffed in an ugly way; "Not hardly! Daddy's not stu--not _very_ stupid; he'll know!"

Molly bit her bottom lip and raised her eyebrows; "Oh yeah?" she giggled, and in the next instant her expression dissolved back to the moment right after she'd cracked her foot, and began to whimper as if she hadn't just been taking delight in the little detective's torment. "Un-Un'ca, Un'ca J-jawn?" she called out in a tearful plea (even if he was hearing it in his adult mindset, Sherlock would have assumed she was near the point of tears; it was that good), and then again, before he could clap a hand over her mouth; "Un'ca _Jawn!_..."

"Sherlock, I said 'BEHAVE'!" the man called out from the kitchen, where he could still be heard puttering around. "If you can't be nice, go stand in the corner!"

Oh, now that was just too much! "I didn't do anythin'!!!"

"Don't lie to me; she wouldn't be crying for no reason!"

"But she--!"

"Don't argue with me either, young man," John interrupted as he reappeared, carrying a now-full bottle, a sippy-cup, and a small bag of ice. "And I'm only telling you once more...be nice to Molly, or nurse a sore bum."

"But Da--!"

"Sherlock, _one!_ "

The rest of the little detective's protests withered away in his throat, and his mouth snapped shut.

Molly simply laid there and continued to look pitiful until John grew closer...then she laid in on thick and reached for him, as if she were seeking rescue from the big, mean boy she'd been left with.

And John fell for it, hard. His face softened as he set the cup and the ice down, then waved his fingers at Sherlock; "Here, hand her to me and move down," he said, sitting down next to them and shifting Molly into _his_ lap.

Now that he was unencumbered, the little detective slunk to the far end of the couch and curled up, drawing his knees to his chest and trying not to pay too much attention to the way John was speaking to Molly as he cuddled her in the crook of his arm. Instead, he stared longingly at his own cup (a cup, he's noticed, and not a bottle like Molly got), well out of his reach...and even though he wasn't thirsty at all, all he wanted was for John to notice and hand it to him with a kind, loving word.

The kind of loving words he was now using on Molly.

"Sherlock?..."

The little detective's ears perked up hopefully.

"Hold this bag on her foot for a bit, would you? Be easy with it."

The hopefully perked ears wilted, but Sherlock nodded anyway; " 'kay," he said as he reached over and picked up the small, already-melting bag and eased it down onto 'poor' Molly's bruised foot. She whinged and tried to pull away, but John was well-prepared and held her still. "Yeah, it's cold, 'innit?" he chuckled as he hugged her against his chest and placed the bottle to her lips. "But it's goin'ta make that foot feels loads better, _yes!_ "

And so, Sherlock was recruited as a temporary 'nurse'; he held the ice in place when he was told to hold it in place, and moved it away when he was told to move it away. At least he could _try_ to show John that he was being good-mannered...

He did all of this while still actively trying to ignore the couple next to him while they were engaged in such a intimate, bonding moment...and as silly as it may sound, being held and bottle-fed _is_ intimate; Sherlock knew from experience, from both sides of the coin. The way it felt, to be held in someone's arms, leaning against their chest and listening to them breathe, their heart beat, looking up into their eyes as you trusted them to take care of one of your most basic needs...

God, but how he needed (wanted) that right now!

John, oblivious to anything else other than what he was physically doing at the moment, smiled down at Molly while he marveled at the difference between how it felt holding her, and what it felt like to hold his little detective. Of course he remembered what it was like to be with a woman (he wasn't that far gone yet), and he'd held (more than) his fair share in his arms...but he'd never given one a _bottle_ before--he'd only ever done the baby thing with Sherlock. So, while it still felt the same for several reasons, it was...not 'odd', per se', but new in that strange sort of way when someone new permeates your daily routine. Familiar, but completely foreign.

It was during a slow moment in these musings when the doctor finally glanced over at the (now that he was thinking about him) quiet little detective and found him hunched over, chin balanced in his hand, and staring absently at his lone sippy-cup. "Sherlock, aren't you thirsty?...Don't you want your juice?" he asked, though he had to wonder as to why the man simply hadn't reached over and taken it already.

Sherlock's spine straightened slowly and he sat up, giving his Daddy a hopeful look, and nodded.

John pointed at it with his head, since his hands were full of an increasingly-sedated little girl. "It's right there, lad...go on and take it."

The glimmer in the little detective's eye faded and he gave a slow shake of his head, then looked away and stared at the pile of his toys on the floor.

Well, that didn't seem right. "...You _don't_ want it?"

Sherlock shrugged.

Now, what was he bein' moody for? "C'mon lad, you need to drink it before it gets war--" he began to say, but a light touch at his face stopped him short; Molly tapped her fingers on his cheek again, and smiled when he looked down and noticed her. "Doesn't take much to make you happy again, does it?" he said, grinning, and kissed the tips of her fingers, making her giggle.

Sherlock listened to everything, heard _everything_ , and felt his chest tighten...and when he also felt his eyes begin to burn, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.

He needed a distraction.

He needed to get away from them, right now.

The pile of toys seemed to be the closest, most practical choice (and maybe picking them up would earn him a little much-needed positive attention), so he unfurled his legs and made to slide down to the floor--

"Fine...if you don't want your cup, why don't you be a good boy and clean up your toys?"

The little detective froze, then cringed with his whole body; well, so much for feeling special. Truly, there wasn't much worse (when kept in perspective) than being told to do 'the thing' that you already had every intention of doing anyway...and for Sherlock, it made him 90% _less_ likely to do 'the thing' at all.

Now he was in a bit of a pickle--either stick with his original plan and focus on his toys while putting his back to the betrayers, but lose any and all credit for thinking of it on his own...or sit there and continue to choke on their nauseatingly sweet display.

Sherlock chose the floor.

John kept watching him out of the corner of his eye; he'd expected there to be jealousy involved, especially on the little detective's part. After all, little Sherlock had been the sole recipient of Daddy's attention for all this time--a new baby (however 'temporary' they may be) thrown into the mix was bound to draw ire, such as the way he'd taken his toys from her. It was only normal, really, and John had to keep reminding himself to divide his attention equally, but it was harder than you would think to not hover over and indulge their giggly little guest!...

John sighed;he just wanted to make sure Molly had the perfect experience while she was regressed around them, as well as show Sherlock that it was okay to have 'little' friends in this part of his world, but it seems as if the doctor may have dropped the ball already. "Sher--" he began...

Molly chose that moment to shift around, turning towards his chest with a soft sigh and tucking her head beneath his chin. John stopped and smiled--he always adored little moments of innocent affection. "I bet you're getting tired, aren't you?" he murmured, and nuzzled his cheek against the top of her head. "You must be, after a show like that...and after staying up _way_ past your bedtime last night." He felt her head tilt up to peer at him, so he glanced down and caught her eye; "Mm-hmm, thought I forgot about that, did you?"

She blinked up at him innocently (trying the same tactic she'd employed when she'd been led out of the bedroom earlier), saw that it _still_ wasn't working, and then hid her face behind his shirt collar.

John chuckled and relaxed as he leaned back and propped his feet up on the table. He took the bottle from her mouth with a sucking pop and held it up, shaking it slightly to gauge how much was left; "Finish this last little bit like a good girl, and then you're going down for a nice snooze," he said, and lowered the nipple back to her lips.

Lips that were now turned down into an admittedly pretty pout. Molly shook her head, and refused to open up.

"Oh no, you don't want anymore?...I guess that means it's naptime right now!" John said with an overly emphasized cheerfulness, as if it were the best idea ever--which, considering how their day had gone thus far, naptime did indeed sound like a wonderful idea.

Molly, however, looked stricken. "Nooooo, Un'ca Jawn! No nap!"

"I hate to burst your bubble, princess, I really do, but naps are going to be happening whether you finish it or not," John replied, and placed a quick kiss on her forehead to soften the blow. "You've looked weary from the moment you arrived, and if we don't do something about that soon, the bags under your eyes are gonna be as big as mine!...and we wouldn't want that, yeah?"

Molly seemed like she wanted to keep pouting, but when John came out with that, couple with the expression on his face, she couldn't stop the giggles from bubbling past her lips.

Which was when John slid the bottle back into her mouth triumphantly; no more muss, no more fuss, just as pretty-as-you-please...all this time taking care of Sherlock had taught him several such useful tricks.

Thinking of the little detective now made John look over in his direction again, realizing that he'd hardly heard a peep from him so far--all of the toys were gone, put up and cleared away, he was pleased to note, and Sherlock was still with his back to them, sitting cross-legged and gripping his feet while subtly rocking back and forth.

"Good boy...that's a good job, Sherlock, _very_ good!" John cheered, loud and abruptly enough to startle both little ones; Molly flinched in his arms, while the little detective jumped and nearly toppled over onto his back, but caught his balance and whirled around to face them with widened eyes as his re-discovered dummy fell right back out of his mouth. John had to laugh--he hadn't meant to scare the poor dears, but with those precious little faces...well, he was just the tiniest bit glad that he did. "And you found your dummy, too...I knew you would, brilliant baby boy!"

He watched as a light pink tinge spread across his little dummy-detective's cheeks at the praise, even as he scrambled for the much sought-after piece of blue plastic and then crammed it back into his mouth (with nearly enough force that John's teeth ached in sympathy) and held it there, and mumbled a reply.

"Say that again, love, without your hand over half your face," the doctor said, amused, and reached over to pat the empty spot on the couch to signal the little guy to join them.

Sherlock crawled over but stopped just short, giving the side-eye to both the empty spot and Molly's swollen foot lying next to it...and then decided against climbing up. He settled at John's feet instead, and laid his head upon the doctor's knee. He gazed up at the man, dreamy-eyed, and repeated himself...but whatever he said was muffled yet again, this time by his dummy. With a short sigh, John balanced Molly's bottle in place with his chin and plucked it right of of the little detective's mouth, leaving it open in an adorable pout. "Say it one more time, then you can have it back," he said.

Sherlock frowned, causing the bridge of his nose to wrinkle up; "...Not a baby," he muttered, hardly more than a whisper, and stuck out his bottom lip.

John smiled; "Oh, _not_ a baby, is that right?" He was teasing him, of course, but he went ahead and popped the nipple back into the lad's waiting mouth, just as he'd promised. "I guess babies don't crawl along the floor in their nappies and whinge for their dummies anymore, do they?"

The colour in Sherlock's cheeks deepened as he realised he'd set himself up for that one, _but_ at least he had his dummy back...finding that tiny piece of treasure hadn't completely erased his gloomies, but it certainly did the trick of dragging him away from tearful territory.

...For the time being.

"I think you _are_ a baby," John quipped, but his tone had lost it's playful edge for something that bordered on soppy; "...and that's perfectly okay, as long as you're MY baby."

The man reached down to cup the little detective's cheek as he spoke, and let his thumb trace over the high arc of his cheekbone fondly. It was all Sherlock could do not to purr at the touch and he felt his mind growing soft and glowy at the edges, the way it always did when John hit on just the right sequence of trigger words to send him deeper into headspace...

There was a dry, almost-grating sound as the last drop of liquid was being sucked through her bottle, and Molly mewled sadly. John took his hand back to tend to her, and the warm, fuzzy feeling went with it.

"You done? Yeah, you're done," John said, taking the empty bottle and setting it aside as he watched an extremely sleepy little girl try to prove that she was _not_ sleepy by rubbing her eyes and biting back a yawn. "Very done," he chuckled, patting her leg, "...almost down for the count as we speak." He stretched over her and lifted the bag of ice (mostly just cold water by now) from her foot and gave it another once-over; it didn't look much better, but it didn't look any worse, either.

She'd be limping for a few days, that much was certain.

John took a long, deep breath and held it, the slowly blew it out from between his lips--well, it just wasn't a normal week without someone getting banged up and leaving puddles of tears behind. "C'mon, sweetheart...you're in dire need of a good, long nap," he murmured, and shifted her legs down so he could stand with her. "Watch out, lad...lets not bump the baby on accident."

Sherlock scuttled out of the way and sat back to watch his Daddy struggle to get Molly onto her feet without hurting her (or himself, for that matter). John managed, which took all three of them by surprise, but soon realised that he faced another problem: the poor thing couldn't put **any** pressure on her foot. Even standing there was causing her to cringe and whimper all over again...so how was he to get her to the bedroom?

John looked her up and down, sizing her up--she was a fairly lean young woman, around his size...why not give it a try?

"Here, doll...arms around my neck and hold on, okay?" he said as he encircled her waist and bent his knees slightly, getting ready to lift from his legs. The bedroom was only short trip down the hallway; he was sure he could make it without dumping them both to the floor.

He tested her weight tentatively...yeah, he was sure.

A short distance away, Sherlock sat and watched the proceedings silently, save for the light tapping of his fingers against his dummy. He knew exactly what John had in mind, and if he succeeded...if he actually _picked her up and carried her..._

The little detective's chest suddenly felt tighter, heavier, as if someone were pressing down on him.

And then, with a lot of laboured breathing, John lifted Molly off the floor (with minimal pushing with her well foot) with a clear gasp from her as she wrapped her legs around his waist and clung to his neck. John held fast and took a measuring step...then another, once they failed to topple head over feet.

Sherlock felt his heart snap in two and settle in the pit of his stomach.

His face grew hot and he felt unsettled, disturbed, and he wanted more than anything to call out for John and make his Daddy come back, or to rush after them so he wouldn't get left behind--but he did neither; he was planted to the floor, his breath coming in quick hitches through his nose and his lips clamped around his dummy so tightly that he could feel his pulse through them as he watched John _**carrying**_ Molly to bed.

Once Molly was over the initial shock (she hadn't been picked up in years, mainly because she wasn't fond of it [it put too much emphasis on her weight and made her feel self-conscious]), she relaxed and laid her head on his shoulder...with John, it was nice and just, well, it just felt _right_.

Yet it was over far too soon, at least in her opinion, as John crossed the threshold (thankful for the fact that he had the foresight to leave the door open), and carefully set the little girl in the middle of Sherlock's...of _his_ and Sherlock's...bed. "God, look at you," he said as he straightened and stretched his back--Molly was already back to rubbing her eyes with her fist. "You're SO tired!"

Molly pouted and shook her head fiercely; everything about this foolish concept of a 'nap' made her want to tell John 'NO!' and hobble away to hide again, but...but oh, the blankets felt so good underneath her legs, and so soft...she was lying back before she even knew it herself, and by that time her bones were already singing the mattress's praises. And the pillow!...the sound that came out of her the moment she turned and her achey, swollen face touched the cool, smooth pillowcase was obscene.

John could hardly blame her...he knew exactly how alluring Sherlock's bed seemed to one in need, and there had been several times after going through a physically demanding case where he and the detective would nest in it for days at a time, emerging only to forage for sustenance, or to relieve themselves.

So no, he wasn't very surprised when Molly took to it and curled up like a tiny kitten.

What did surprise him, though, was as he was covering her up with the shiny pink blanket from her bag, the near-comatose girl shot straight up, barely able to keep her eyes open, and asked "...Sher'yock?"

The request gave John pause; he'd counted on Molly taking a nap, that had always been the plan...but Sherlock? After their little tussle? Besides, that man-child never took naps willingly anyway, and only rarely when it was **un** willing, such as when he was hurt or feeling ill. There was no chance whatsoever of getting him to go to sleep next to her, unless...

Well, _maybe?_ Worth a shot.

"Okay, okay," he whispered as he shushed her and pressed on her shoulder to make her lie back again. "You, sleepy little miss, can stay right here while I go get your Sherlock." With that, he patted her hip, and stood to leave.

"An' bear?" she asked, popping right back up.

John sighed; "Yes, and Bear," he promised, and got her to lie back yet _again_. "Now stay put, or it's 'big trouble', young lady."

Molly clutched a fistful of her and, while tucking it under her chin, jutted her bottom lip out at him and nodded.

"Good girl; Uncle John will be right back, promise!"

On his way back to the sitting room, John wondered if she'd actually stay put (he hoped she would), because he really didn't want to go any farther than say, a time-out for her first time here--you know, let her 'little' side get to know and be comfortable around them, give her a chance to learn the rules and routine, that sort of thing...but he supposed if she kept pushing boundaries...

He turned his mind away from that, back to Sherlock. The little detective had regressed a fair amount by now, and a regressed Sherlock wasn't always a 'quick' Sherlock (well, one of the main reasons he ever regressed at all was so he wouldn't have to _think_ as much, so...yeah), so John had no idea if he was going to be able to get Sherlock to follow along with his line of thinking, or if he was just going to talk his way right into a strop...

...And he'd already been left by himself for far too long, either way. "Sherlock?...Sherly, what are you up to, love?" John called out as he entered the room again--and had his question answered when he found his little one sprawled out on the floor, facedown. The older man hesitated; did he really just...fall asleep...in the floor?! No way, no _fucking_ way. Not this kid. "Sherlock?"

A whole wave of curls shifted, turned, and then a pale, sad-looking face peered out at him.

Or rather, half a sad-looking face; the bottom half was nearly taken over by a blue dummy shield. Whatever frustrations that had piled up throughout the day vanished as John gazed down at that face. He smiled and crouched to Sherlock's level, with one hand on the corner of the coffee table for balance; "What's the matter, monkey? Getting tired?"

The dummy, which had lain completely still in the little detective's mouth to this point, suddenly fluttered to life the moment John drew close, the way a puppy's tail would at a kind, high-pitched word...but to answer John's question, he only shook his head and grunted; "Mm-mm!"

"No, not tired?" Damn...of course, that would have been too convenient. "Just bored?"

Sherlock pulled his arms in and tucked them underneath his chest, and shook his head again.

" _Not_ bored either?" John asked, showing his surprise. When Sherlock neglected to comment any further than that, the doctor decided that he might be more forthcoming if they happened to have the rest of the conversation at eye-level...so, while ignoring the popping sounds from his knees (like a plastic toy with ratchet joints, he was--he really should start going for runs in the morning, or something to that affect; he was getting lazy), he knelt down and proceeded to lay flat-out in the floor next to his little genius.

He folded his arms underneath his head and smiled at Sherlock; who was eye-balling him curiously. "Now I know why you like it down here...so much more comfortable than that slab of concrete you call a bed," he announced.

Sherlock only stared at him blankly, and John was beginning to get upset that he'd wasted a perfectly good joke when he noticed the first hints of a smile peeking out from behind the dummy's edge, making the corner's of the little detective's eyes crinkle.

"Ahh, I knew it! I _knew_ that would get a laugh!...you're a naughty boy, tryin'ta make your Daddy think he's not funny!" John laughed as he reached out to tickle Sherlock's neck...not only was it precious to watch when he got a smile like that, but it was also a relief to know that his little man wasn't in a mood after all.

Sherlock burst into sweet giggles and scrunched his neck at John's touch, then shook his head and hid his face back in the carpet--when John stopped tickling and brought his hand back, then (and only then) did the little detective peek back out with one bright, shining eye, silently begging for him to do it again, and drummed his feet on the floor.

"You imp," John chuckled lovingly, and got up on his elbows to move closer. "You're cute, but it's not playtime anymore love, it's quiet time." Sherlock may not like naps, but damn if John didn't see to it that he got at least and hour's rest on his 'little' days...even if he spent it curled up in his Daddy's lap, getting the back of his nappy patted (adult Sherlock would readily admit that this was one of the best sensations in the world--and Jawn tended to agree). "Come on, we're going to go spend it with Molly; she's been asking after you again."

Just like that, the light left Sherlock's eyes and his brow knitted together in a pout, while the rest of him seemingly deflated.

"That's not going to work on me, young man...you're the most adorable giant baby in the world, but you know you have to have quiet time."

Sherlock whinged low in his throat and turned his face away while he drew his knees up under him, along with his arms, making his bottom stick right up in the air.

...John thought he looked like a little nappied turtle.

The doctor sat up on his screamin' knees and put his hands on his hips. "Sherlock," he began in his 'don't-test-Daddy' voice. "If you show me that bottom with _that_ attitude, I will spank it."

Sherlock whinged even louder and kicked out his legs, flattening himself out instantly.

John sighed; did _every_ 'little' go from happy and giggly and bouncy to a pouting, stroppy mass of grump in the blink of an eye, or was it just his that was special that way? "One..."

The muscles along the little detective's back and shoulders tensed.

"Sherlock, two..." John warned.

The 'count' finally worked and got a reaction; Sherlock rolled over onto his back and glared up at him, chest heaving and cheeks beginning to bloom red, and John wondered if he was both physically and mentally able to handle another tantrum so soon after the last...but when Daddy decided to glare back, daring him to try it, the defiant edge over the little detective fell away and tears welled in his eyes as his face crumbled into the picture of heartbreak.

_'Oh, **shit.** '_ "No, Sherlock, don't...don't cry, lad! _Please_ don't cry!" John begged, and felt nearly on the verge of tears himself. He'd just gotten Molly to stop!

Sherlock's chin began to tremble, his chest hitch, and as John watched helplessly, he reached up to cover his eyes with the backs of his hands.

And no true toddler meltdown would be completely without that last deep, quivering breath before his mouth wet slack and let his dummy tumble out, unnoticed, in a wide (but so far, silent) cry.

Straightaway, John knew this wasn't a normal 'I'm-not-getting-my-way' fit...he'd seen enough of those to know...but a 'my-feelings-are-really-hurt-and-I-can't-handle-it' fit.

...And John couldn't even begin to fathom why.


	6. Chapter Six-Glaciers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whew*
> 
> Well, here it is, at long last...I just want to thank everyone for being so patient with me for all these months; I know it can be very aggravating to wait for updates. Just...thank you, for everyone who keeps reading and commenting, thank you. 
> 
> Enjoy. :)

Poor, oblivious John Watson was currently at a loss. "Sherlock," he said softly, afraid that anything above that level would be taken as 'too harsh' and turn this as-of-now silent fit into the piercing shrieks he knew the little detective was capable of, and get Molly wound up again. "Sherlock, lad, what's _wrong?_ " he asked as he reached for him. "You have to talk to Daddy; I can't fix it if you don't tell me!"

Sherlock took another deep, wavering breath, and followed it with an audible sob.

John secured him under the arms and lifted (there was little straining; thankfully the other man cooperated and sat up with him instead of resisting...the doctor took it as a good sign) the little detective into a sitting position, the held him to his chest. "Daddy's not mad, see? Shhhh, it's alright," John soothed, pressing the back of Sherlock's head and making him lay on his shoulder; he left the weight of his hand there, and massaged slow circles behind his ear with the pad of his thumb. "What's the matter, you don't want to lay with Molly?"

Sherlock sniffled, and shook his head.

Not much of an answer, and John couldn't decide if he meant 'no, he didn't want to lie with her', or 'no, that's not what's wrong'. He tried again; "You think I'm making you take a nap?" he ventured...

Another shake of the head.

"Then why...?"

Sherlock was shaking his head before John could even finish the question. The doctor sighed; well, at least the coddling and petting had worked in calming him down. "Look, love...why don't you just lie with her--stop telling me 'no', and let me finish, please--just lie with her until she falls asleep, yeah?"

...Sherlock shook his head.

John rolled his eyes; "Sherlock, please... _please_ listen to me; Molly likes you, okay? She wants you around to play, and you make her feel better...all you have to do is wait until she goes to sleep, then you can sneak away and come find me."

He felt the slender frame huddled against his chest tense up slightly, then move away--Sherlock sat up and stared at him, and while he didn't make a sound, John could see the shift in mood through his eyes, and that was encouraging. "Yeah," he went on, putting on a smile (and hoping that the little detective was down too deep to get a reading on the barely concealed desperation in his voice), "...once she's asleep, then we can have our normal quiet time, just you and me."

Sherlock sucked in his bottom lip and looked away, worrying it with his teeth...then, with a heavy, burdened sigh (and without looking directly at John), he nodded.

John let out a sigh of his own, but his was of relief; "Oh, good boy, _good_ boy!" he cheered, taking the little detective's face in his hands and covering each cheek with kiss after kiss. "Daddy's so proud of you for making good decisions!"

Sherlock grunted and turned his head away from the action, also putting his arm up between them as a sort of barrier, but for all the fuss and bluster, John could still see the glow of satisfaction that his praising brought on, and it made him laugh. "Okay, okay, Daddy stop," he chuckled, giving the back of Sherlock's nappy a good whap with the flat of his hand. "Up, up, and away, big boy...climb off. Your services are required in the bedroom."

The taller man's arms flew around to protect his backside and was already in the midst of telling John to "Stoooooooooop--!" when he abruptly cut himself short and raised his eyebrow at the man, his mouth still hanging open in mid-whinge.

John was instantly on the defensive; he knew that look. "...What?" he asked, leaning back a bit and wearing a similarly dubious expression.

Sherlock closed his mouth and continued to give John a disparaging look.

The doctor was utterly confused and at a loss as to what Sherlock was on about...until he thought on it and finally registered what he'd just said. "Oh, you... _pissy_ little-!...not THOSE 'services', you berk!" he groaned, and punched the other man's shoulder.

"You said it!" Sherlock grumbled, rubbing the spot.

"You know that's not how I meant it, you cheeky little shit...get your arse up and in that bedroom, _now_."

Sherlock scowled further and crossed his arms; "What happened to 'good boy'?!" he snapped, being rather testy.

"He turned back into a smart arse, apparently, "John spat back. "Now, kindly ger'offa me, and--" He paused midsentence and inclined his head towards the hallway, listening, and Sherlock did the same. They both went silent...as did the sound of creaking mattress springs.

John took a deep, _deep_ breath; "MOLLY," he called out, "...lie back down, NOW, or I'm coming back there!" No more Mister Nice Uncle Jawn/Daddy; not right now.

There was another moment of heavy silence before they heard the springs creaking again, and then all was quiet once more. "The both of you, I swear," John said with a dry, humourless laugh and a shake of his head. He looked back to Sherlock, still sitting in his lap, still staring down the hallway, chewing on his bottom lip. "Get. UP."

Sherlock startled at the sound of the command, his head whipping back to stare at John with that wide, frantic, 'dear-in-the-headlights' expression before scrambling up from the mans' lap, and then stood watching, quietly, as he heaved himself up from the floor. "The both of you," John repeated with a grunt, and gave his hands a quick brush together before planting them on his hips while staring Sherlock down; "...are going to be in for a really **bad** time if your attitudes don't. straighten. up."

The little detective bowed his head during the scolding, cast a quick, worried glance at John, then stared back down at the carpet and pretended to be more interested in his toes.

Normally, it was a successful tactic...John would sigh, call Sherlock a cute little bastard (or some variation thereof), and they would both move on about their day. However, John was now more than a smidge past his usual level of irritation, and wasn't buying it. "Bedroom. NOW," he ordered, snapping his fingers and pointing towards the the door...and when the taller man spun around to do as he was told, the good doctor swung his arm back and delivered a good, hard, flat-handed swat to the meat of the little detective's left thigh, resulting in a loud crack that was most definitely heard all the way down to the street.

Sherlock cried out as his leg nearly buckled, and he frantically reached back to try and rub away the horrid sting; he looked up at John, his eyes watering, and started to ask " _Why...?!?_ "

"For the lip you were just givin' me!" John replied, and when Sherlock tried to protest again, he held up a finger to stop him. "No, no more...not another word from you. Go find Gladstone and lie down, like I told you."

His gaping mouth snapped shut with a whinge and the little detective, after a short-but-thorough regard of the look in John's eye, turned and continued on to his bedroom, his shoulders hunched and hand rubbing the back of his thigh the whole way.

Molly was sitting up in bed when he came in, doing a near-perfect impersonation of a meerkat; she'd heard the smack (which John had intended for her to), but it still shocked her when she took in Sherlock's reddened face, teary eyes, and overall sullen posture. "Sher'yock?..."

'Sher'yock' shook his head and didn't answer...he didn't even look at her as he wordlessly climbed onto the bed next to her and reached underneath her pillow (HIS pillow; she was lying on _his_ side!) and pulled out Gladstone. "...Sher'yock?" Molly tried again, leaning forward to peek up at his face.

"Give'em a minute, Molly," John said from the doorway, causing her to jump; she hadn't noticed him following her friend. "Sherlock's not quite happy at this moment, but it's time to lie down and close our eyes, anyway."

The little girl looked from one man to the other, and seemed to be debating with herself on whether or not to push it further. In the end, her focus settled on the small stuffed puppy that Sherlock was squeezing the life out of (figuratively speaking), and glanced back up at John; "...Bear?" she asked tentatively, as id she expected to be snapped at next, and tugged at a lock of hair that was plastered to her neck.

Now, John didn't actually slap his forehead...by my-oh-my, did he ever want to. Instead, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath; "Right, yes, your bear...I'll go get him, I'll be right back, just--just stay put, and I'll be back in a second, doll," he said, hoping he didn't sound as frustrated as he felt, and left the room.

Molly watched and waited until John was out of sight before turning back to Sherlock...only he'd moved and was lying on his side, facing away from her, and she finally noticed the large, angry-red splotch on his thigh, just under his shorts (couldn't really miss it, not against that ghostly-white skin). "Got a spanking?" she asked quietly.

Sherlock hesitated, then gave such a quick nod of his head that, had Molly blinked, she would've missed it. She nearly did anyway, because she just couldn't keep her gaze off that handprint. Without a further thought, she let her hand drift down and gently, _oh_ so gently, brush over the spot with her thumb. "...Owwie?"

Sherlock flinched and reached back to push her hand away; "Don't touch," he mumbled, still refusing to look at her.

Molly jerked her hand back as if it had been slapped; strangely, she would have preferred it if he _had_ struck her, yelled at her, shown some righteous anger at the dirty ploy for attention she'd pulled--anything would have been preferable to this quiet...detachment. "S'awry, Sher'yock," she whispered sadly.

"Your fault," he muttered back, while playing with the small tag on Gladstone's collar.

...Okay, maybe she'd been wrong in what she'd preferred.

" _My_ fault?!" Molly squawked. "What did I do? I wasn't even there; how is it mine...!?!"

The detective flipped over and glared at her; "What did you _do?!_ You're the one who got me into trouble in the first place with that whimpering nonsense--'Oh, Uncle John, help!'," he said, mimicking her.

Molly felt her cheeks flush...she'd sort-of forgotten about that. She'd assumed he was irritated about her going up the stairs after being told not to. "I...I didn't mean for him to really yell at you; I was only playing," she offered meekly.

Sherlock snorted and flopped onto his back, folding his arms over his chest while he glared down at his feet.

Well, at least he wasn't putting his back to her anymore--that could be a good sign, couldn't it? Molly laid down and turned onto her side, wincing as she moved her foot...it even hurt to move the ankle, it was just that painful. She'd really muffed herself up this time, and it was all her own fault.

Typical.

After making sure her foot was as comfortable as it could possibly be, with no added pressure, she folded her arm underneath her head and stared up at the stone-faced detective. "Don't be mad," she whispered.

Sherlock cut a sideways glance down at her, then went back to his feet.

"Don't be mad," she whispered again, inching her upper half closer and giving her best doe-eyes.

He only pursed his lips, but Molly also thought she saw a little of the tension ease out of his shoulders. "Don't be mad, Sher'yock...p'ease?" she pleaded, and moved in for the kill...she scooched as close as she could without booting him off the bed completely, then laid her head in his lap and nuzzled his leg with her cheek. "P'ease, Sher'yock?...I sorry."

Sherlock rolled his eyes...John might (would) fall for it hook, line, and sinker, but did this obnoxious, frilly, lacey, pastel-coloured little shit actually think she could baby-charm Sherlock-fucking-Holmes, who (arguably) revamped the whole _concept_ of baby-charming...!?!

Well, Sherlock-fucking-Holmes took one look down at the wide-eyed, pink-pouty-lipped girl cuddling his thigh--and while he didn't fall for it, he certainly...slipped. Just a little. He sighed and brushed her hair back from her face, petting her; "You're not all that cute," he grumbled.

A wave of relief rolled through Molly and, for a split second, she even forgot all about her aches and pains; 'begrudging acknowledgment' was always a sure sign of Sherlock's forgiveness. She giggled and sat up further so she could one-arm hug his waist and bury her face in his tummy.

Caught off guard, the little detective 'oof'ed and tried to push her away while fighting a smile. "Stop, no! Don't tick-- _ **ack!**_ Don't tickle!!!" he fussed...or, he tried to fuss, and ended up giggling right along with her. At least it was better than having his kidney's stabbed with her jabby, pointy fingers again! "Stoppit, nononono n- _yah!_ Maw'yee!"

Molly ignored him outright and nudged the bottom of his shirt out of the way, exposing a pale, soft-looking patch of tummy that was just ripe for the picking, and blew a great, big raspberry that had Sherlock squealing and trying to dodge her like a worm avoiding a hook.

During all of the giggling and playful shrieks exchanged between the two now-recharged Littles in their last stand before naptime, neither of them happened to notice the still-exasperated-but-in-a-better-humour doctor step back into the room, with both Molly's bear and her pink owl tucked under his arm. John grinned at them both, then cleared his throat loudly; "As much as I love hearing you both laugh and play nicely, it _is_ naptime, and that requires you shutting your eyes and going to sleep."

Both Sherlock and Molly jumped at being startled, and both immediately looked more than a little sheepish. She stayed hugged to his waist with her head propped on his hip, staring up at John bashfully, while Sherlock put his arm over her shoulders and slouched down, waiting to get scolded again for riling her up.

But, John did no such thing; he crossed the room, stopping for a brief check on Molly's foot, then sat on the side of the bed next to them.

Sherlock gave Molly's shoulder an involuntary squeeze, while he watched John with a wary eye. She, though, was acutely aware of the stuffed animals he was carrying, and the love for her 'stuffies' was far greater than any threat of a telling-off. She sat up, leaning on her elbow (that had the misfortune of being planted right in Sherlock's groin) and reached for them. "Mine!"

John gave her a look; "Yes, they are...how do you ask for them?"

The little girl pouted and (much to Sherlock's immense relief) shifted off her elbow, her head plopping back into his lap. "P'ease, Un'ca Jawn...mine back?" she asked, in a voice so soft and tiny-sounding...and completely contrary to most of the behavior she'd exhibited already.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow; he'd already underestimated her once, he wouldn't be making that mistake twice.

Beside him, John was beaming down at her. "That's it, there's a sweet love!' he cooed as he handed them over. Molly squeaked excitedly as she grabbed both and curled around them, babbling away.

The older man laughed while the little detective watched, and just as those familiar pangs of jealousy and resentment were beginning to make the tips of his ears grow uncomfortably warm over how _cute_ this little shit could be at the drop of a hat, Sherlock caught the sound of a drawer being pulled open; he turned to investigate, naturally curious as always...and was met with another silicone nipple being pushed into his mouth.

John chuckled knowingly at the look of surprise on Sherlock's face, and patted his cheek; "I'm not making another trip to look for the one you left in the other room, so make do with this one," he said as he shut the small drawer that was filled to the brim with dummies of every size, shape, and colour imaginable. "Now lie down, lad...Molly, scoot over and give him a little more room, doll."

She looked up at the mention of her name, with a bright smile all ready, just for her Uncle John, and happened to notice that he still had a thumb over the soother in Sherlock's mouth, holding it in place. Moreover, she noticed that while HE had a dummy again, SHE didn't. "Dummy?" she asked, reaching for it.

Both men saw the grasping little fingers coming and John caught her hand, stopping her well short of anywhere near it's intended target...but not before the little detective pulled away sharply and covered his mouth, protecting it. "Mm- _mm!_ " he grunted, and glared at her.

"Sherlock, be nice..." John gave Molly's fingers a squeeze, and moved them away. "No-no, doll--that's his not yours. You can't take it from him," he said.

The glare switched from Molly to John, but Sherlock wisely kept quiet; he could share his toys, no problem, he 'had' to share his Daddy, but she was not getting the dummy right out of his mouth!

Molly backed away slowly, sinking down onto her side of the bed and giving Sherlock the space he needed. "Dummy?...My dummy?" she asked, and made sure to clarify herself this time.

John gave Sherlock a warning look before putting his attention back on the little girl next to him; "I don't know where it is, sweetness...we'll find it later."

A thin, pink bottom lip started to tremble; "But I, I _want_ it!"

What John wanted to say: "Well, we don't always get what we want, do we?!?"

What he said instead (because he knew the former was purely felt out of frustration and fatigue, and he just didn't 

have it in him to snap at a little girl {plus, that would sure as shit make her cry, and that was _exactly_ what 

he wanted to avoid!}) was a rushed "Oh, no...no no no, just a moment!" as he pulled the drawer open again and grabbed the 

first dummy that he saw off the top of the pile and practically tossed it into her mouth before the first whimper could 

form.

It took her by surprise, of course, but just as it did with Sherlock, the dummy worked like a magic charm and Molly calmed, then lay down on her pillow until half her face was buried in it, making sucking sounds so soft that they would have been impossible to hear if the two me hadn't been so close by.

John...was enchanted.

Sherlock...not so much.

He turned to John, his brow furrowed, ready to voice his concerns (thought how he planned to do that with a mouthful of nipple...Little headspace was odd at times) and was again met with a firm finger pressing the plastic shield, muting him. "She's only **borrowing** it," John said, letting his look fill in the blanks that his words left.

Sherlock quickly caught on (the throbbing in his thigh helped with that) and in the blink of an eye, 'Pissy'lock dropped his pout and softened into 'Snuggle'lock, and leaned against John's shoulder for a cuddle.

"...You know that doesn't work on Daddy."

The little detective blinked up at him, eyes glistening, and nuzzled John with his cheek.

The older man tried, as he always did, to stay stern and stone-faced, but...as always...he just couldn't against a look like that; Baby Sherlock could turn even the Huns into jelly-knee'd piles of mush that could only go 'Aw!'. "You're an awful, _terrible_ , manipulative little beggar," John said, with a warm smile spreading across his face as his arm came up to cradle his boy's back. He pushed aside a twist of silky curls with his nose and placed a kiss on a smooth patch of forehead; "...but you'll always be Daddy's little beggar."

Sherlock huffed quietly and smiled to himself--the happy, fuzzy, glowy feeling was back, at last.

John kissed the top of his head and rubbed his hand down along Sherlock's spine, and then patted the back of his nappy; "I know, you want a cuddle," he whispered into his little imp's ear. "So do I...but after Molly's asleep, yeah?"

Sherlock sighed, but nodded anyway.

"Good boy," John replied, ignoring the sigh as he kissed his boy's smooth cheek. "Lie down with your Molly."

Sherlock wiggled down and started to obey, to lie down as he was told, but stopped short and tilted his chin towards John, who was watching with an 'amused-but-confused' expression. "What's that mean, eh? I'm not fluent in 'baby' yet."

The little detective huffed impatiently and, after craning his neck back almost to its limits, gave John a very pointed stare...the one that always had the older man hearing his lover's adult-voice in the back of his head, nagging him ( _'Come now, John...this is very obvious. Need I explain it?_ ') The doctor's mind scrambled for an answer, running through nearly every conceivable notion of what Sherlock could possibly need; he already had Gladstone, he had his dummy, but he'd refused his cup earlier (on that note, John told himself to remember to pour that thing out--it had been left sitting on the table this entire time), and he'd be a LOT more vocal if he needed a change, so what could...

A light bulb flicked on over John's head.

Sherlock saw it, and smirked.

"I repeat; you're a terrible, _awful_ little beggar!" John scolded playfully, then gave Sherlock a great big, noisy kiss on the cheek. "Awful, awful, terrible, awful!" He landed a kiss with every word, in every place he could reach: cheeks, nose, forehead, even eyelids! while the little detective squealed and giggled so hard that he let his dummy fall out all over again.

...Molly lay perfectly still, and watched the (overly?) affectionate display in silence.

Once he was confident that he'd covered every square inch of exposed skin on the little detective's face with at least one kiss, John sighed happily and let his forehead rest against Sherlock's, close enough to see the flecks of brown among the soft blue of his eyes, especially the 'freckle' mark above his right pupil....but it wasn't the right moment to dwell on such things. "Made up for earlier, have I?"

Sherlock's eyes crinkled at the corners, but even if they hadn't, John still would have known he was smiling. "A bit," he replied, and kissed the tip of the older man's nose.

"A bit," John repeated with a slight chuckle. "S'pose I'll have to work harder for the rest." He returned Sherlock's kiss with a quick peck on his lips rather than his nose and quickly suck his dummy back in right after (partly to silence the little shit before he could trap John into going 'round and 'round instead of actually resting). "Lie. down," he said, for what felt like the umpteenth time.

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock hesitated...and John got the distinct impression that he was being read to see how much more could be gotten away with before going too far and crossing the line into Lap-Laying terrain. He started to calmy remind the little detective that Daddy would be more than willingly to make the back of his other leg match the stingy one but before he could bat an eye, Sherlock was lying flat on his back, blinking up at him innocently, with Gladstone securely tucked under his arm.

"Good lad," John hummed as he stood and retrieved one of the many (many) soft blankets from the pile stacked on top of the nearby rocking chair, and covered him with it. "Close your eyes, both of you, and I'll see you in a couple of hours," he murmured as he bent to kiss Sherlock's forehead, then stretched over him to do the same with Molly. With a final pat on her hip, John straightened back up and turned to leave, flicking the light off after him and leaving the door slightly ajar.

Sherlock lay there quietly and cuddled Gladstone while listening to the sounds of John still moving through the flat, as well as Molly's shallow breathing. He was just tracking the other man's steps into the kitchen when the paper-thin quiet of the room was broken; "...You have a really good Daddy."

The little detective wanted to smile, and found that he already was. "I kn'yow," he said, his speech slurred, and waited for her to go on about his _amazing_ Daddy and how wonderful he was!...

...She didn't.

There was something else, though...a sound, a very quiet sound, and Sherlock was reminded of the time Lestrade came down with a monstrous cold and would show up to work anyway, while trying to simultaneously breathe through a stuffed up nose and keep it from dripping everywhere without sniffling and letting everyone on to how poorly he felt. He finally took his gaze away from the door and started to ask Molly if she needed a tissue, only to find her quickly wiping at the tears that were dribbling from the corners of her eyes. One hung precariously off the tip of her nose before splashing onto the pillow, leaving a small, dark stain.

Sherlock didn't know what to say...she'd seemed fine a minute ago, even if drained. "Are you...are you okay?" he asked, taking the dummy from his mouth. The question felt completely inadequate for the situation but, being in little space himself, it was all he could think to do.

Molly sniffled again and nodded as she swiped the back of her hand across her nose. "Y-yeah, sorry," she whispered in tight, breathless way.

He turned onto his side and wriggled down so he could face her. "No you're not," he whispered back, folding his arm underneath his head and laying his cheek on the bend of his elbow. "...What's wrong, Maw'yee?"

She shook her head again, clearly overwhelmed and trying to hold it all back. "F-foot, hur-hurts," she whispered at last, voice straining.

That was more than likely the truth, Sherlock knew (her foot had to still be aching and throbbing of the worst order)--but he also knew it wasn't the _whole_ truth, and would have called her on it...

...Were she not already in tears and on the verge of another bawling, hysterical mess that he might get blamed for yet again.

Whatever the reason, it was still terribly sad to watch and even more heartbreaking to listen to. "Aw, don't cry," he whispered while inching closer...almost until they were touching noses. "Don't cry, Maw'yee."

Molly looked as if she wanted to answer, but sniffled hard instead...hard enough to trigger a coughing fit and make Sherlock afraid that she was going to lose her breath. Before giving it a moment's thought, he was reaching over her and gently thumping the middle of her back.

She responded by scooting closer still, and curled up against his chest. Molly shifted around a bit to get comfortable, snuffled wetly in his ear, then settled into the nook his body created with a tired sigh.

...Well.

That was...unexpected.

Molly squirmed against him and began to fuss again...Sherlock, having been caught off guard, had dared to stop patting her. "Sorry," he whispered, starting back up, then sighed with relief when it worked and Molly quieted down.

' _Hm...now!_ "

The little detective felt a tug at the corner's of his lips and quickly pressed them together, but not even that could stop the laugh he was trying to suppress from sneaking up the back of his throat and out his nose. So, it was attention that she was moaning for?...

Oh, sweet summer child...Sherlock Holmes _invented_ that trick.

...Okay, maybe not 'invented' it, but he damn well perfected it.

A rush of warm breath hit his face as Molly huffed in frustration; "s'not funny!" she said, her bottom lip poking out.

Sherlock nearly snorted again (okay, so she was cute when she did that; he could understand why John caved...somewhat), but once he caught the intake of breath and her increasingly stormy looks, the urge to laugh ebbed away and he resumed patting her back, lest she call out for John and _really_ get the little detective in a stitch. "Okay, okay...saw'ry!' he whispered.

Molly continued to glare at him, but she released the breath she'd been holding in a quiet puff. And then, just to confuse him even further, she inched back into the groove she'd made near his chest, muttering "Meanie..." under her breath.

Now, Sherlock had always been called names; numerous names, from numerous people (including his lover, who he could hear watching something on the telly with the volume set low), and there were always times when some of those names would hit closer to home than others...but few stung in quite the same way Molly's just had. "I'm...not," he whispered, his words halting.

She nodded back, wiping her cheek on his shirt in the process. "Are too."

Sherlock was _not_ a 'meanie'. "Well, you...!" his mind raced for a good counter. "...You got me yelled at! For no reason!"

"You put spit on me!"

"Only after you did mine!"

"Yeah, well you...you!" Molly struggled for something else to throw in his face, but couldn't. "Yeah, _that!_ "

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the not-quite-convincing argument.

Molly narrowed hers (albeit in an exhausted, puffy-eyed version).

Sherlock stared.

Molly glared.

The standoff (stare-off) went on for far too long (at least it felt that way to her) until Molly, who was squinting in a way that looked really, _really_ uncomfortable to the detective, simply couldn't keep her eyes open anymore. They fell closed with an irritated sigh; "You're right, I started it," she grumbled, rubbing at her itching eyelids. "I'm sorry again, so can you...can you just," she hesitated and looked back up at him, allowing him to see how truly wrung out she was. "Can you keep patting, please? It felt...nice."

Rarely had the urge to say 'I told you so!' been stronger than it was now, but Sherlock somehow managed to hold back...which is saying a LOT, considering that he never thought twice about saying it to John. Relished it, in fact. But obviously, John wasn't a sad, teary little girl.

Obviously.

The little detective sighed and closed the gap between them, then replaced his arm over her back and alternated between patting and rubbing. Just patting and rubbing, patting and rubbing--followed by more patting, and more rubbing. It wasn't long until Sherlock's arm felt as if it were made of lead and about to break off, but every time Molly's eyes would drift closed and her breathing slowed, he would stop...and every time, every _single_ time, the moment his hand went still, those same dark brown eyes would pop right back open and he'd have to start right back over.

After repeating this pattern twice and trying to ignore the dull ache in his shoulder, Sherlock realized with a slow, dawning horror that he was starting to sympathize with John (with _John!_ ) for doing the exact same thing for him when he had trouble getting to sleep(...if he was still awake himself when Sherlock came to bed).

The. Exact. Same. Thing.

Now the burning in his muscles was growing more intense and therefore harder to ignore, and his arm was beginning to tremble from being held at such an awkward angle (' _should have adjusted her long ago,_ ' he thought dejectedly) for so long...he'd been at it for a good fifteen minutes now. Unable to bear it any longer (well, okay...he could have, but he didn't really want to), Sherlock carefully let his hand drop with a dull clap onto Molly's back, and left it there. He shut his eyes, waiting for the crying (and inevitable howling when she didn't get her way)to start, ready to stand his ground and say "No more!"...

...and was met with soft, shallow breathing.

Sherlock held his breath and cracked one eye open in the narrowest of slits...she was fast asleep, her lips parted slightly while, behind bruised-looking eyelids, her pupils darted back and forth. He let out his breath in one long, silent sigh.

Now he could go find John.

He started to turn away from her and already had one foot out of bed when Molly, the _blasted_ girl! rolled into the dip in the mattress Sherlock left behind and plastered herself to his side, making a half-cry, half-groan that was only getting louder. The detective ran his hands over the sheets frantically, searching this way and that until he found a small lump under the blanket near his hip. He quickly fished it out, hoping that it was one of the two dummies they'd both inexplicably lost already (John was always complaining about how they had 'too many' {despite being the main one guilty of buying MORE}, but they were constantly going missing, and even Sherlock himself had trouble finding specific ones), and found that it was the one John had given him at the start of naptime. Rather than wasting time trying to find the other one, he held it down and pressed at Molly's lips, hoping she'd be quick to latch on and quiet down.

At the gentle insistence, Molly's lips parted and sought out the silicone nipple, then closed around it with a soft sigh as she settled down into the nest of blankets around her.

Sherlock froze, one foot still dangling precariously above the floor, waiting to see if that was the end of it.

It seemed so...Little Molly lay there completely still, save for the slow rise and fall of her back as she breathed.

The little detective kept his eye on her nonetheless as he slowly inched the rest of the way out of bed and padded barefoot across the carpet, then slipped through the door.

*******

When John Watson had left the two little ones to their own devices (it may sound ludicrous, but after the smacking Sherlock received beforehand, he could depend on a short period of good behavior), the first thing he'd done was stand in the middle of the sitting room and look around, marveling at the stillness of all surrounding him, from the pair of well-used armchairs on one side of the room to the short table on the other, with an empty bottle, a full sippy-cup, and the first dummy that Sherlock started the day with before chaos reigned.

Then he'd had a good, long (muffled) laugh at the absurdity of the juxtaposition of it all.

Then, he'd gathered the cup, bottle, and the dummy and carried the whole lot into the kitchen for a wash.

And _then_ , at LONG LAST, John got to enjoy his own 'quiet time'--he angled the television towards the couch and flopped down backwards, stretching his legs with his head resting on the arm as he vegged out on a random talkshow while he waited for his 'Lock.

Five minutes passed.

Then another five.

Then another...

...And then another. John began to wonder if Sherlock, by some previously unheard of miracle of nature that didn't involve him coming down ill or being under the influence of medication (or tears), had fallen asleep on his own.

He would've, should've, gotten up to go check and see if this was actually what had happened, but...well, now that he was established on the couch and somewhat invested in the dismal-looking pair arguing semantics on the telly, he found that while he kept telling himself to ' _Get your lazy arse up and go check on the babies...get up, get up, get up, get UP GET UP GET UP--_ '...the rest of his body calmly told the former to ' _Fuck off_ '.

Who was he to argue with that logic? He laid his head back ("Just for a moment," he assured himself), and within the next set of five minutes, John Watson was taking a nap of his own.

Not long after that (but long enough for John to have dozed off and start snoring, **loudly** ), if you were to listen in between the buzzing honks that John so often referred to as 'I'm-not-snoring-you're-snoring-shut-up- Sherlock', one would be able to hear the soft whoosh of air from a door being pushed open, then pushed shut again quickly, followed by the quiet thumps of a pair of feet that knew exactly where the creaky places in the hallway were after learning to avoid them many a night.

Sherlock slowly peeked around the corner and was slightly disappointed to find his Daddy asleep--he'd been hoping to use this chance to talk to him alone.

Well, he still _could_ , if he cared to wake John up...but a well-rested John was always more preferable to a not-so-rested John.

Keeping in mind that he did _not_ want to wake Daddy up, Sherlock crept across the room, silent as a fart in the wind...and crawled on top of him.

John grunted at the accidental (it _better_ have been accidental) elbow in the ribs and, before he could catch his next breath, again as the entire weight of a six foot, 155 pound (on a good day) toddler collapsed and stretched out on top of him. He managed to suck in a quick breath and coughed,as he glanced down and caught a face full of slightly- sweaty-smelling curls. Smiling, he pressed a kiss down on top of them and laid back, shutting his eyes again; "About time you showed up," he chided in a light-hearted manner.

Sherlock kept silent and stared at the telly.

John laid an arm across the little detective's back; "Molly hard to get to sleep, hm?" he asked, rubbing his thumb along one of Sherlock's ribs.

Sherlock nodded.

John tsk'ed. "I was afraid of that, poor thing...cried herself to sleep, did she?"

Sherlock started to nod again, then stopped and shook his head.

John craned his neck to the side so he could see the little detective's face. "Oh, really? She just gave up?"

Sherlock shook his head again.

"Well, what did you do...slip her something?" John snorted with a quiet laugh.

Sherlock hesitated...hesitated long enough for John to start feeling very nervous, because it was NOT out of the realm of possibilities for Sherlock to casually drug someone for his own convenience, but before he could really start to sweat, Sherlock shook his head again.

Which the doctor took to mean that he'd at last considered if, it not acted on it. John felt the tension in his chest loosen its hold and he sighed in relief...he also lifted his hand and let it fall with a loud thunk on Sherlock's padded bum. "Don't scare Daddy like that, love...s'not nice. How did you get her to fall asleep, anyway? Told her a story?"

Sherlock grunted at the impact and turned to press his face against John's chest, which was just as uncomfortable as it sounded for both of them (what with his nose pressed flat right on top of John's sternum), and shook his head again. "Be a big boy and use your words, Sherly...we're not going to play a guessing game for the next twenty minutes."

Sherlock looked up at that, planting his chin where his nose had been previously, and stared at him--the little detective had plenty of nicknames (and not all of them were necessarily appropriate for a two year old, either in age or at heart), and 'Sherly' was not in his list of favorites.

John chuckled; "Well, that worked...alright, Sher-LOCK, answer my question, please."

Those Cupid's Bow lips pursed into a pretty pout and Sherlock dropped his gaze, fixating instead on the small, white- ish buttons sewn to John's collar. He shrugged and began to pluck at one with his fingers absently.

John covered Sherlock's thin, long fingers with his hand and pressed them down, stilling them. "Nope."

Sherlock's pout deepened and reached his brow this time, creasing it, but he sighed; "...patted her back," he mumbled.

A smile slowly began to light up John's face. "You did? Aw, patted the baby's back...how sweet!" he said, laying the sentiment on thickly.

The little detective blushed furiously before he could hide his face again. "She was going to start crying again!" he protested. "An' she's _loud!_ "

"So are you!" John said, laughing. But the he remembered that the very same little one they were talking about was only a short distance away, and lowered his voice. "No, she needed a little love, and you gave it to her because you care...you know you're no good at lying to Daddy when you're little."

He felt a short blast of hot air through his shirt as Sherlock 'hmph'ed. "...Are too," he muttered.

John chuckled; "Careful, love...people are going to start seeing right through that dark, broody exterior of yours and 

learn that Sherlock Holmes is nothing but a big, sweet, gooey baby at his core," he teased.

Sherlock's head snapped up, and while the word 'offended' was the first to pop into John's mind, it was nowhere near accurate enough to describe the gaping sneer that twisted up the little detective's face. "That sounds disgust-...don't you _ever_ put those words in that order ever again! And no I'm NOT!"

John clucked his tongue. "That's no way for a baby to talk to his Daddy...especially when he's in need of a change!" he crowed smugly as he quickly slipped a hand up the leg of Sherlock's shorts and wormed a finger into the now-wriggling, squawking detective's nappy...but the victorious expression soon turned to one of mild surprise as he felt around. "You're dry?"

"Tha's what I was tryin'ta say!" Sherlock snapped, reaching down to none-to-gently remove John's weathered hand from his nethers.

"Hey now," John scolded, but allowed him to do it. "You usually need a change by now, though."

Sherlock shrugged and, once he made sure John's hand was nowhere near his nappy, settled back down to watch the telly.

John frowned; the little detective had spent the better part of the afternoon padded up, and yet he was still dry? Highly unusual for Sherlock, who actually enjoyed being changed as much as his Daddy enjoyed changing him. "D'yah think it was because you didn't finish your cup, hm?" he asked, softening his tone of voice as he combed the curls away from Sherlock's forehead with his fingers.

The indifferent toddler shrugged again, back to being non-verbal.

"Do you want another one?"

This time he got a nod.

John waited for him to move; Sherlock didn't budge. "Well, you have to move and let Daddy get up then, little love," he said, amused.

Sherlock looked up in horror at the very notion, his eyes going wide with worry. "Nooooo!" he whinged, and John felt a pair of hands clasp at his shirt from both sides.

"So, you don't want your sippy?"

A plump bottom lip jutted out at him with a stubborn shake of a certain detective's head.

The corner of John's mouth quirked up in spite of the behavior...now that he'd had a bit of a breathing period with no crying or shrieking, he was in a much better frame of mind to deal with little Sherlock's mood swings. "Yes you do," he countered, picking out a particularly enticing curl and pulling it straight, then letting it spring back into place. "And even if you did just change your mind in all of fifteen seconds, you're still getting one; I wouldn't be a very good Daddy if I let my wee one get dehydrated, would I?" He leaned forward and placed a kiss dead-center on Sherlock's forehead. "Come on, love...let me get you something to drink."

"But I don't want anythin', I really don't!" Sherlock insisted, clinging to John even tighter.

"And I just said I was getting you one anyway, didn't I?" John replied as calmly as he could, and went to pry Sherlock loose. "Let Daddy up, and I'll be right back..."

" _But I don't want to!!!_ " the little detective cried out, **loudly** , causing John to clap a hand over his mouth in order to silence him. " _Shhhh!_ " he hissed sharply, narrowing his eyes as Sherlock's widened. "Don't you dare wake that baby up, or you're going to spend the next two hours in your room, by yourself!"

Sherlock could only stare at him, stunned, and John could feel (as well as see it, going by the rapid, hitching motion of his chest) his breath hitting the palm of his hand in short, hot little bursts, and John knew all too well what that meant...

And right on cue, there they were...tears welling up in Sherlock's eyes, making John feel like the biggest, meanest, most heartless bastard on the planet. Seems that that was the only thing he'd been good at today, was making his little boy cry. He sighed and moved his hand away, hoping that he hadn't actually hurt the little one when he's slapped it over his mouth so abruptly. "Oh, love..." he said, softening his voice. "That was mean...no, that was _really_ mean. I'm sorry, sweetheart, I didn't mean that."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying not to cry, and nodded. "S-sorr'ee," he whispered. "I, I won't...don't be mad!"

"No-no-no-no," John answered quickly, cupping Sherlock's cheek. "I'm not mad, I promise...a little frustrated, perhaps, because you're not listening to Daddy very well, but not 'mad'...still shouldn't have snapped at my baby, though," he added, and gently kissed the little detective on the forehead.

Sherlock gave him a faint, but very relieved smile and laid his head back onto John's chest while blinking up at him with big, shiny eyes, and tucked his thumb into his mouth.

...Now, who in their right mind could yell at a face like that?! "Sure, sure--you're adorable and sweet and never do _anything_ remotely naughty, ever...keep rubbing it in," John chuckled, and kissed him again. "Where's your dummy, silly boy?" he asked, nodding at the thumb in his mouth. "Lost another one?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Well, it's a good thing we have loads of'em, isn't it?" John rubbed his hand up and down along Sherlock's back. "We'll find you another one... _after_ you finish a full cuppy for me. Think you can do that for Daddy, hm?"

The little detective heaved a sigh worthy of one of his Da's; he should have seen that coming. He would have kept protesting, insisting that he was just fine, _thank_ you, but he knew John better than John even knew John, and knew he wouldn't be letting up until he'd gotten Sherlock to drink that cup.

So...Sherlock nodded again.

"Good boy! Go on and let me up, then!"

Sherlock pouted up at him, the utter betrayal of it written all over his face, and pushed himself up from where he was sprawled on top of John and sat back on the opposite corner of the couch, where he crossed his arms and sulked.

"All this fuss over a minute-long trip...a trip that would have been over and done with by now, if you'd listened the first time," John stated as he swung his legs over and stood up. "What do you want, love? Juice? Milk?..." He began to walk towards the kitchen as he asked and, while listening for Sherlock's answer, went to take another step and realised that...well, that he couldn't.

John sighed. "Sherlock...let go of Daddy."

The little detective (who was sitting up, both arms outstretched, and had his fingers hooked around John's belt) grunted and shook his head 'no'.

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly--honestly, he could release a whole series of self-help breathing tapes, and make a mint off of them. "We just had a talk about this, lad...if you don't let go, I can always take the belt off and put it to better use."

Sherlock fussed and whinged and tugged, but when John refused to let himself be pulled backwards, he had to up his nonverbal language of distress and began to bounce in that frustrated toddler sort-of way, pre strop.

John peered over his shoulder; "Little boys who don't use their words don't get what they want."

The drawn, ruddy face that stared back at him balefully grew even more pinched, suddenly putting them right back in the same turmoil John thought he'd settled. He shook his head; "Nope, uh-uh...we're not doing this noise again." After prying each set of long-as-hell fingers loose (which was no easy task, and he may or may not have needed to smack the back of a wandering hand to keep them from reattaching), John turned and took Sherlock by the elbow. "Come on, come with Da' if that'll make you happy."

And it did!...at least, it seemed to work: Sherlock clung to John's side as he toddled along with him, clutching his hand so tightly that he could feel his fingertips throb in time with his pulse. ' _What's with him today?_ ' John glanced over at his little shadow, who was now sucking the thumb on his free hand rather enthusiastically. This was the clingiest he'd ever seen him, even by normal Sherlock standards, and he hadn't even been spanked!...only scolded and threatened with it (the single swat to the back of his leg didn't count; the little detective usually didn't get emotionally compromised unless the full draped-over-the-lap ritual was followed-through).

No, the only thing he could think of that was out of the ordinary today, was Molly's presence....but was that really enough to put Little Sherlock so out of sorts?

John was going to have to keep a closer eye on things.

"You still haven't told me what you want, big boy," John said, opening the cabinet reserved for bottles/cups/he odd jar of babyfood/and boxes of little finger-biscuits for nibblers. He'd only just put his hand on the nearest sippy-cup when Sherlock, still clinging tighter than a leech, perked back up and started shaking his head 'no' frantically. "No, not that one?" Now he nodded. John moved his hand to the next cup...and the next, and the next, and the next, each time with the same 'yes/no' pattern until his patience was wearing incredibly thin...but Sherlock reached his own limit first and took the other man's wrist, then physically moved it up one shelf and placed it on one of the bottles sitting there.

John was surprised, but considering the little detective's recent behavior, he really shouldn't have been. Of _course_ the little clinger would want a bottle instead. "Ohhhh, I see...that's what you're after, inn'it," he said, taking down the brown-and-blue striped one and unscrewing the cap. "So that's why you didn't take your cup; you saw Molly with _her_ bottle and got jealous," John chuckled. "My little jelly-baby."

Sherlock removed his thumb and blew a long, rather forceful raspberry at John, coating a good portion of his inner ear and his cheek in a thin mist of saliva in the process.

John dropped the bottle onto the counter and went to wipe his face with his sleeve. "Of all the... _disgusting!_...that was nasty!" he scolded through clenched teeth and a grimace. "Big no-no, Sherlock!--we don't spit!"

The little detective had the good sense to look appropriately chastened and bowed his head.

John was not so easily swayed, however. "You sit your little bum down, and not another peep from you until I say otherwise!" he snapped in his no-more-nonsense-I'm-deathly-serious tone as he pulled the nearest chair away from the table and none-too-gently set it down (while still keeping their resident Sleeping Beauty in the other room in mind).

Sherlock plopped down in his seat so quickly that John heard a puff of air come from the padding in his nappy, and even caught a whiff of baby powder a second later. He turned his back to the little detective in a hurry, just to hide the grin that was fighting to lift up the corners of his mouth...it wouldn't do to laugh at his antics literally right after scolding him, no matter how sickeningly adorable he could be just when John's frustrations reached their breaking point.

"I should've gotten muzzles for the both of you," he muttered while he fixed his little Sherlock a bottle. He found that, if he focused enough, that going through the motions of something as relatively simple as making a bottle, or changing a nappy, or even going on a dummy-hunt throughout the flat, was oddly relaxing. Unscrewing the cap, pouring juice (or milk, if they had it) up to a specific line marking the measurements on the side just as you would for an infant, then screwing the nipple back on...it felt better just to get back to a 'normal' part of their routine, even if it wasn't the usual time for it. "C'mon, love," John said, putting the rest of the juice away and turning back to Sherlock, bottle in hand.

The oversized toddler was sitting cross-legged in his chair, right where John put him, and had his thumb buried in his mouth up to the palm. The rest of his fingers were splayed wide, almost as if he'd been pulling faces, and was leaning precariously close to the side so he could watch what John was doing just as intently as the doctor himself.

John smiled broadly; Sherlock could never fail to be utterly-fucking-adorable when the pressure was on. "Maybe muzzles aren't such a good idea...you'd strop something fierce if you couldn't get to that thumb, wouldn't you?" he laughed as he poked the tip of Sherlock's nose. "Or maybe one of those dummy gags that you can lock would work."

The little detective blinked up at him, surprised, then giggled as he wrinkled his nose and shook his head as he grasped John's hand, allowing himself to be pulled up.

John chuckled and drew Sherlock in close, flush against his chest. "You know I love you the most, even when I'm grumpy with you, yeah?" he asked, placing a quick peck on his jawline.

Sherlock giggled again and tucked his chin down; "Uh-huh," he answered, and wrapped his arms around John's neck and planting a big, wet baby-kiss on his forehead. "I know."

"You...are a _moist_ little child." John replied dryly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Go on, back to the couch...we're still doing 'quiet time'."

Sherlock toddled along obediently, thinking that he'd been extremely lucky that he'd only been scolded and made to sit down...especially since he could still feel the still-warm spot on the back of his thigh. He reached back to rub it and found that, while it didn't really sting anymore, it felt very tender and raw when light pressure was applied.

Maybe he should let Maw'yee be the one to push the rest of Daddy's buttons today.

John settled down into his spot on the couch, his back in the corner, and patted his lap. "There's a lad; come sit with Da'!" he said, and shook the bottle to entice him.

And Sherlock, who needed NO enticing whatsoever, turned and plopped his crinkly, well-padded bum right into John's lap, making him grunt, but he still wrapped a protective arm around the little detective's narrow waist to keep him from toppling over. Sherlock stretched his long legs out in front of him and scooted down until he could lay his head back against John's collarbone with a content little sigh.

John smiled and held the bottle in front of Sherlock's nose, waiting for him to take it. "Are you a happy little boy now, hm?" he whispered right in the little detective's ear, then gently kissed the top curve of it.

Sherlock took a good, long look at the bottle, then tilted his head back to peer up at John, waiting.

Now, in John's defence, it only took him a moment to catch the drift...Sherlock was the one with a vastly different definition of 'moment'. And annoying as his so-called guessing-games are, they were improving John's critical thinking skills.

After awhile, anyway. "Oh, _silly_ me!" he faux-cried, rolling his eyes and moving it closer to Sherlock's lips. "I forgot that's a Daddy-job, didn't I?"

Sherlock giggled the smuggest-sounding giggle that had ever been giggled, then took the silicone nipple into his mouth and began sucking on it quite happily.

' _Finally._ ' John kissed the top of his little detective's head and absently rubbed his belly while he drank.

' _Finally._ ' Sherlock put one hand over John's and closed his eyes. _This_ was the Daddy-time he'd so desperately been needing (wanting).

They sat there quietly, content at last, with John rubbing slow circles around Sherlock's tummy while they watched (or stared at, rather...both their mind's were elsewhere) the television screen flickering across the room. The little detective felt wonderfully boneless and brainless under John's easy touch, and was happy to serve out his quiet time without another single solitary fuss...

...when the door to his bedroom creaked open.

"...Uncle Jawn?"


End file.
